


Vietnam

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton and Romanoff are partners, kind of friends, but mostly they're Hawkeye and Black Widow, SHIELD's most deadly duo. When tragedy strikes on a mission in Vietnam, they're cut off from SHIELD and on the run. In order to survive, the two assassins must face everything they've been denying, and decide if they can really, truly trust each other. Pre-Avengers. Origin of BlackHawk</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ways You Make Me Feel Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> This is part of my "Vantage Point Universe" so if you haven't read my other stories ("Youngest In History", "Vantage Point", and "Trust") just be aware that this is part of a series. It can be enjoyed on its own, but things will hold more impact and make more sense if you've ready the others. :D 
> 
> Thanks to Rain in the Dark for acting as my Russian translator!

_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed._

**_C.G. Jung_ **

* * *

Clint grunted as his back slammed into the sparring mat. He put one hand on Natasha's knee and the other on her ankle, twisting her leg off his body. Before she could retaliate, he rolled backwards and to his feet. No sooner had he righted himself, then she was on him again, her foot flying high towards his face. He ducked, grabbing her leg after it past and twisting to anchor it to his side. He leaned back, watching her second leg pass a breath from his face. She was off balance when she landed, her leg twisted awkwardly. He used the brief moment to his advantage. Using her leg as leverage, he twisted his body into the air, scissoring his legs around her waist and using his body weight to send them both careening to the mat. He rolled away quickly, but not before she snapped her elbow into his thigh. The extra second it took for him to get to his feet was all it took.

Then her thighs were around his neck and he was on his back again. He struggled uselessly for a moment before sighing and tapping her thigh twice. She released him immediately and rolled effortlessly to her feet. He stayed on his back for an extra moment, breathing heavily.

"You're getting better." She informed him, holding out a hand to help him up. He accepted it gratefully and let her haul him to his feet.

"Really? Cuz from my angle you still kicked my ass firmly and effectively." He breathed a laugh, massaging his sore thigh. She frowned at him.

"I never understand why you  _laugh_  even when I beat you."

"Romanoff, I  _always_  get beaten when I spar with you. I'm laughing because there are worse ways to go down than with your thighs around my neck." He smirked, blue grey eyes twinkling mischievously.

He expected the hard punch to his shoulder, so he was still chuckling even as he grunted in pain.

"You should take this seriously." She lectured as she moved over to her towel and wiped her forehead.

"I  _do_  take it seriously." He shrugged, "In the moment at least."

"Barton, you never take anything seriously."

"Well someone has to make up for  _you_  taking  _everything_  seriously. You need to learn to laugh a little Romanoff." He nudged her shoulder, pulling the front of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Natasha blinked at his suddenly exposed abdomen, feeling her mouth go dry at their sculpted near-perfection, marred only by his numerous scars, before reaching abruptly for his towel. She averted her eyes and threw it at his face.

"I laugh." She defended sharply.

"Okay. That little huffy half laugh thing you do when I say something you want to pretend doesn't amuse you… _doesn't_  count." He explained with a chuckle, using the towel to wipe his neck.

She frowned at him.

"Why doesn't that count?" She asked after a moment.

"Because that's not  _real_  laughing, Romanoff. That's huffy  _half_  laughing."

"And what is  _real_  laughing, Barton? Since apparently you're the expert." She waved her hand demonstratively before crossing her arms over her chest. His eyes narrowed at the glare she had leveled at him.

"You know." He shrugged, "Like when something's so funny you laugh until your sides hurt. Or when a situation is so shitty that the only way you get through it is to laugh about the stupidest things." He explained with a smile. " _That's_  laughing, Romanoff."

"Well maybe you just aren't funny enough." She countered with a dismissive shrug, taking a long draw from her water bottle.

He scoffed, putting a hand to his chest as if to say he was wounded by her words.

"Uh, I am  _totally_  funny enough. Your sense of humor is just as monotone as corpse."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Whatever, идиот." She muttered.

"идиот?" Clint arched an eyebrow. "That the best you got? I thought you'd at least come up with something more creative than that."

"I liked you better when you weren't so good at Russian." She rolled her eyes again as she linked her hands behind her back and stretched out her chest.

Clint blinked when he found himself watching her. He cleared his throat and averted his attention to  _anything_  else.

"Well I was bound to get better, especially at recognizing insults. What with the frequency you hurl them at me." He replied, gathering his water bottle, "Hell, I'm practically fluent now and you only have yourself to blame, Барышня ."

"Don't call me that." She snapped with a glare.

"Whatever, Барышня." He mocked, turning to leave. He came up short when he nearly collided with Coulson. "Jesus, Phil…" Clint looked around, "Do I need to put a bell around your neck? How do you always do that?" He laughed.

"It's easy when you aren't paying attention to your surroundings." Phil scolded. He glanced at both of them, drenched in sweat. "I guess I don't need to ask who won."

"Why don't you need to ask? Maybe  _I_  won."

The sudden disbelieving scoff from Natasha earned her an annoyed glare. She shrugged it off, unconcerned.

"If you're done." Coulson drew both of their attention back to him. "We have a mission."

"About time." Clint complained.

"Well if you hadn't gotten shot,  _again_ , we wouldn't have had to wait three weeks for you to be back on active duty." Natasha pointed out, jabbing a finger in his right side.

"Hey… _tender_." He frowned at her. "And it was a through and through in the muscle…no harm, no foul."

"Your definition of 'no harm' is  _very_  interesting." Natasha shot back easily.

"You almost sound concerned." He smirked.

"Don't bet on it."

"Clint!" Phil snapped, "Romanoff!" He frowned at their wide eyed innocent looks. "Like I was  _trying_  to tell you. Briefing in fifteen minutes. Get showered, get changed, and don't be late." He angled the last instruction at Clint, who shrugged innocently.

"That was one time."

* * *

Natasha scowled at her partner's empty chair. At the head of the table, Coulson tapped his pen against the file in front of him.

"He's not late yet." He pointed out calmly.

"He's doing this on purpose." She replied. They both started when the air vent above them shifted and Clint poked his head into view.

"Hey guys." He greeted, "I'm not late am I?"

"You know there's this thing called a door. You know it, hinges and a handle…makes entering rooms surprisingly less complicated." Natasha snapped sarcastically as he dropped easily out of the vent and to the ground next to her.

"Look whose sense of humor got a pulse. Was that sarcasm, Romanoff? Color me amazed."

"Bite me." She snapped as he moved around to his seat.

"Don't tempt me." He shot back, glaring back mockingly when she leveled him with a heated gaze.

"Children." Coulson drew their attention. "Clint, the air ducts? Really?"

The archer shrugged, unwilling to explain his method of entrance.

"Probably checking his nest." Natasha muttered, thinking of the pile of blankets he had hoarded up in the air duct above his room. It was where he escaped to when he didn't want to be found. She was pretty sure only she and Coulson knew about it, and only Coulson had ever ventured up there before and only on an extreme occasion.

Clint gave her an approving grin for the comment.

"Romanoff from left field, not bad."

She hid her own grin by looking down at her brief.

Clint looked to Phil who was looking exasperated.

"Phil, what are you waiting for? What's the mission?"

"Vietnam." Coulson replied, sliding a brief to Clint across the table. His agent, suddenly focused, started flipping through it. "Human trafficking."

"What's the play?" Clint asked. Natasha looked up as well, waiting for the answer.

"Elimination."

"Prisoners?" Natasha asked.

"Free them if you can…but don't risk the mission." Coulson instructed. "We need them shut down, permanently…and with prejudice."

"I love it when we do things with prejudice." Clint grinned and glanced at Natasha, "We could do it like Nigeria." He offered.

"I was thinking that or like Romania."

"Which time? With the twins?"

"No, Barton. How would that make  _any_ sense? The other time, with the guy that limped."

He nodded in understanding.

"That thing in Barcelona worked really well too." He added, rubbing his jaw in thought.

Her eyes lighted in agreement.

"That  _was_  highly effective…efficient too."

"We can discuss it on the flight." Coulson interrupted. "Learn your briefs. We leave at 0500."

"Sounds good, Phil." Clint raised his hand to pat Coulson's arm as the agent clapped a hand on his shoulder as he left. He and Natasha glanced at each other.

"Dinner?" He shrugged.

"I'll treat." She grinned as she stood, gathering her brief with her.

"Damn, Romanoff, that's three jokes in one sitting…slow down or you might hurt yourself." He laughed as he followed her out of the briefing room and towards the mess hall.

She rolled her eyes and grinned so he couldn't see.

* * *

"This…is… _disgusting_." Natasha complained as she picked at her hamburger. "Did you see that? I think it moved."

Clint blinked at her mid chew, lowering his eyes briefly to her burger then raising them back to her.

"Who are you, the Queen of England? It's a burger."

"I  _know_  what it is, but this is gross. It must have been sitting there all day."

"Here." He shoved his plate half full of spaghetti towards her. "I'm done anyways."

She accepted it without comment, still eyeing her abandon burger warily. Clint flipped open his briefing and snagged a fry off her burger plate.

"You're going to eat that?" She stared.

He froze, fry half in his mouth, eyes wide.

"That was the plan…until two seconds ago, what the hell?"

"It was with the burger."

"Astute observation. I speak for the class when I say…so  _what_?"

"It's contaminated."

"With what?  _Burger germs?_ " Clint mocked popping the fry into his mouth.

"No with whatever I saw crawling around on the bun."

Clint promptly spit the fry back onto the plate.

"Say what?"

"I  _told_  you it was moving." She gestured at the burger. Clint glanced at her, then at the burger, then back at her, suddenly feeling nauseous. He shook himself, looking back at his brief.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat, "not a lot of intel on the organization itself. Just a location and a few names…huh," He trailed off, reading intently.

"What?" She prompted.

"Not even an idea of where the people are coming from."

"Could be anywhere these days." She shrugged.

"Nasty world we live in, isn't it." He shook his head, continuing to read through the brief. "Looks like they're the farm. They collect the people to be trafficked and then send them out by the container load as needed."

"Charming." She muttered.

"Yeah, the ass hat that runs it is a real prize." Clint agreed.

"Introduce me to the ass hat." She smirked.

Clint slid spun a picture on the table so she could see the face.

"Meet Alan Carter… _Alan_? Really?" Clint studied the name again. "Not the name I expected to match that pretty face."

Natasha studied the photograph. Alan Carter's face was noticeably scarred from what looked like a knife. The look in his eyes was as evil as she'd ever seen.

"This is gonna be fun." Clint grinned.

Natasha smiled at his enthusiasm. In their two years of partnership, she'd come to learn he  _really_  enjoyed taking down bad guys. The more evil the target, the more he enjoyed it. And god help the target if he'd ever harmed an innocent, because then it wasn't just  _fun_  for Clint. It was a personal mission of destruction. Alan Carter had just gained the attention of SHIELD's premiere assassin and Natasha didn't envy him that.

"You done?" Clint asked, motioning at her cleaned plate.

She nodded.

"Let's get out of here then." He stood, grabbing his brief and waiting for her to lead the way before he followed.

* * *

"Something doesn't feel right." Natasha announced from where she sat cross-legged on the sparring mat.

"What's wrong?" Clint asked from where he was laid out on his back, his legs were propped up on an inflatable exercise ball. As he read over his brief, he lazily rolled the ball back and forth with his legs.

"I don't know. I just feel like we're missing something." She replied, looking up from her brief to regard him. He rolled his head to meet her eyes.

"Yeah, I know what you mean." He admitted, then he smiled suddenly, "That'll sure make things interesting."

"Interesting wasn't quite the word that came to mind." She rolled her eyes.

Clint shrugged.

"We never know everything going in."

"Yeah…and usually things go wrong  _because_  of that."

"Not that time in Dubai. That mission was flawless from start to finish."

"You do realize that  _one_  flawless mission in two years of partnership  _isn't_  something to be proud of."

"Our 98.3% success rate is, though. So flawless or not, we can handle whatever gets thrown at us." He decided confidently.

Natasha inclined her head in acquiescence. He had a point. They were the best team at SHIELD because of their ability to roll with the, sometimes literal, punches and adapt to changing situations.

Clint flipped his brief closed and rolled into a backwards somersault to his feet.

"I'm getting some shut eye. Given that we have wheels up in three hours."

"Yeah, I'm heading to bed too." She agreed, rising gracefully.

"See you in the A.M., Romanoff." Clint tossed over his shoulder as he headed towards the door.

"It already  _is_  the A.M., Barton." She reminded, following his path. She entered the hallway in time to see him slip into his room. She stared at his closed door for a moment before moving to her own room.

* * *

Natasha dreamed of blood. She dreamed of faces. They were old faces and young faces, different races, different beliefs, but all dead. Dead because of her. Then something else forced its way into her dream. A bright light in a sea of darkness and it called to her. It shot arrows of light into the darkness that wanted to consume her, punish her. And it called to her, promising redemption.

She woke with a start, breathing hard. She pushed her sheets off and stood abruptly, moving quickly to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, trying to calm her racing heart, settle the twisting of her stomach as she remembered all the blood on her hands. Almost Barton's blood, once upon a time.

She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to figure out what he'd seen. What had Clint Barton seen in her that  _no one_  else had ever seen? She looked down at her hands, imagining them covered in red. Barton had been teaching her ways to wash that blood away. Had been helping her, one day at a time, to wipe her ledger clean.

And he didn't even know it.

Whether she would ever tell him or not, she knew she owed Clint Barton everything. He had saved her from a path that would only end in darkness. And he continued to save her everyday with his humor, his sarcasm, and his undeniable  _goodness_. He saved her even from her dreams.

With a sigh, she pushed away from the sink and left the bathroom. She needed to work off some energy. She wasn't going to be able to sleep again tonight. She wandered slowly to her and Clint's private training room. They were deemed  _too advanced_  to train with the rest of the SHIELD agents. So somehow Barton had talked Coulson into getting them their own training room.

From what she'd learned about Barton over the past three years, Coulson had pulled him from general training completely a year and a half after bringing him in. It wasn't until  _she_  came though, that they'd gotten a private training room. Before Clint brought her in, they'd apparently trained before and after hours. Though she'd heard rumors of the archer intimidating people out various areas of the training gym.

He used to be even more possessive over the range.

Now he had both in one place and no one but them and Coulson had access.

She slowed when she reached the door. There was a soft light bleeding under the door. Silently, she pushed the swinging door in a little.

Barton.

She knew he dreamed, just like she did. Neither of them slept well or for any great amount of time. He never talked about it though and neither did she. Although, she'd seen him talking quietly with Coulson on the roof one night and something told her their handler knew more about Clint than she ever would. They both had their own ways of coping, and sharing wasn't one of hers.

She beat up on a punching bag, it was her catharsis.

He practiced.

Arrow after arrow flew flawlessly to his array of targets at the other end of his range. He usually moved when he practiced, reasoning that he would rarely get a chance to sit still and take careful aim. He was doing that tonight. Sprinting around the room, firing shots that should be nearly impossible and hitting the target with deadly accuracy every time.

She smirked when he ran towards his gymnast bar, pulling his bow string over his head as he moved. He grabbed it with both hands, swinging his body up and around. She knew his goal. Coulson had installed a series of steel bars and beams in the ceiling and Clint loved to practice both his archery and his agility up there.

And she had to admit that even at her best, she couldn't compete with him when he was up there. Height, agility, and firing arrows all thrown together into one activity. It was his element.

He swung his body around the bar a few times, speeding his momentum with each circuit. Then he released, soaring up in the air. He flipped once, his hands snagging a beam. A breath and he was up, balancing with ease. She watched him pull off his bow and let another arrow fly.

She'd just do some shadow sparring in her room, she decided, letting the door fall closed before he could notice her.

* * *

Clint turned suddenly towards the door, certain he was being watched. But the door was closed and he was alone. He frowned. He'd felt her eyes on him, he was sure of it. Two years they'd been partnered, known each other for three, and she still hovered like a shadow sometimes, like she wasn't sure she wanted to interact with him. But he was tuned to her. He could  _feel_  it when she was nearby. He refused to consider what that might mean.

She slept about as little as he did, he'd noticed. But when she wandered the halls at night, she usually steered clear of him. If he was in the training room, she found a different place to blow off her steam. She wasn't a sharer, he'd realized that the first time they'd met. But he couldn't hold it against her, he wasn't a sharer either. Coulson was his  _one_  exception. The man had earned the right to know what was going on in Clint's head.

He'd been like her once, though. Secluding himself in his pain, believing he didn't deserve to be free of it. It had taken the stubborn persistence and steadfast reliability of a man named Phil Coulson to get through to him.

Romanoff needed her own Phil Coulson.

* * *

Clint was inspecting their jet when Natasha got to the hangar. He wouldn't be flying them, she knew, but he always inspected anything before they took off. She could see ear buds in his ears, connected to a black wire that snaked down into his black jacket. He loved his iPod.

"Morning, Agent Romanoff." Coulson greeted, appearing beside her.

"Agent Coulson." She replied, tracking Clint's progress around the jet.

"I assume you both read over the mission brief."

"We went over it last night." She nodded sharply. "I'm confident we've learned all we can from the files."

Coulson nodded. Romanoff was ever the professional. It was a nice balance to Clint's tendency to take the most unprofessional track he could, all while creating a nice mocking illusion of professionalism. The real beauty of it, Coulson believed, was the sheer number of people that fell for the illusion and never realized the humor behind Clint's façade.

They both watched curiously as what they assumed was their pilot suddenly strode in from across the hangar and made a bee-line for where Clint was bobbing his head in time with whatever tune he was listening too and inspecting one of the jet engines. Natasha rolled her eyes heavenward, praying for Clint to just bow out gracefully and not allow a confrontation to develop.

She watched the pilot reach to pull Clint's hand away from the engine.

_So much for that._

Clint had the guy's hand twisted up and around faster than they could blink. Nobody touched Clint. He just didn't like it. There were exactly two people in the whole wide world that he allowed inside his personal bubble. Phil and Natasha. Even then for Natasha to be allowed close they had to be sparring, or he had to be injured with only her around to provide medical care.

She didn't mind and wasn't offended. She was the exact same way, only she didn't have that relationship with Coulson. For her, Barton was the only one that ever touched her.

It was just something people  _knew_  about them.

Most SHIELD staff knew that Clint didn't like being touched and respected it. But most SHIELD staff also knew Clint. Natasha had discovered three types of people in the base. First, the people that respected Clint's abilities and experience and deferred to him. Next, the people that were scared shitless of him and avoided him entirely. And finally, the ones that thought he was a spook that shouldn't be allowed among the general population, and treated him like he was an outsider.

The way the pilot was looking at their resident archer suggested he was part of the final group. This wasn't going to end peacefully. As soon as Clint locked up his hand, the man started spouting off curses at the assassin. She saw Clint's eyebrows rise in what she thought might have been amusement. He still hadn't taken out his ear buds.

Natasha glanced at Coulson to see if he would intervene. He was unpredictable in his defenses of Clint. Sometimes he would be in the aggressor's face in an instant, tearing a strip off them for disrespecting SHIELD's best agent. Other times he hung back, let Clint handle it however he wanted. She didn't know what created the distinction in their handler's mind, but apparently today was a sit back and watch day because Coulson just crossed his arms over his chest and watched with a furrowed brow.

Natasha strained to hear what the pilot was saying, unconsciously leaning towards the confrontation.

"Where the hell do you get off, touching my bird?" The pilot was hissing.

"I was just checking it over, man, I do that every time I go up, no matter who's flying." Clint was actually trying to reason with the man. He must have been in a good mood.

"Not on my bird." The pilot shot back.

"What are you five?" Clint laughed mockingly, "I'm a pilot, man, it's habit. Plus there was this time in Mumbai…" Clint stopped abruptly when the pilot reached out and yanked out Clint's ear buds by the wire. Clint blinked slowly.

"I don't care, Spook." The pilot hissed. "My bird, my rules."

"Did you just pull out my headphones?" Clint asked carefully, as if he were baffled that it had actually happened.

"Clint." Coulson warned from where he still stood arms crossed.

Natasha looked back at him, only then realizing she'd started towards the duo. To do what, she wasn't sure.

"It's cool, Phil." Clint called back, not taking his eyes from the pilot. "But I think I  _will_  fly us after all, on  _this_ jet."

"What?" The pilot raged.

" _Clint._ " Coulson warned more firmly.

"Our former pilot is medically unable to complete his duties." With that, he twisted sharply and Natasha knew without hearing it that the bones in his wrist had just snapped. "That should teach you to treat people like dirt and to pull out their headphones when they're listening to music." Clint lectured, releasing the pilot, who stumbled back, cradling his hand to his chest.

"I'm gonna report your ass, Barton."

"No you won't." Natasha countered, shifting silently to stand at Clint's shoulder.

Where Clint garnered three different types of reactions from people, Natasha brought out exactly  _one_. Fear. Even in the three years she'd been working for SHIELD, she was still the Black Widow to them, the most deadly contract assassin to ever live. People didn't cross her, people didn't look at her, people never disagreed with her. Except Clint. He had never shown a hint of fear around her, not even when they'd first met. And Coulson. Coulson was just too calm and collected for anyone but Clint, who seemed to be able to read they're handler's mind 99% of the time, to ever know what he was thinking.

Natasha didn't mind the two exceptions, but she definitely enjoyed the rest of the population's reactions to her. Clint called her a sadist, but always with a cheeky smile on his face.

This pilot was no exception.

He shifted uncomfortably under her sharp green gaze.

"Go." She stated impatiently, waving her hand as if he was inconveniencing her.

He went. Quickly.

"You enjoyed that." Clint stated with a smirk. "Admit it."

Natasha flipped her long curly fiery hair over her shoulder and smirked.

"I knew it." He grinned. "You're a sadist."

"Clint." Coulson was suddenly standing with them. "Really?" He asked with an exasperated sigh.

"He pulled my ear buds  _out_  of my ears." Clint defended with a huff. "Who  _does_  that?"

"You broke his wrist."

"It'll probably improve his piloting." Clint shot back.

Coulson arched an eyebrow, his cheek twitching as he held back a smirk.

"Better load up, we've got a schedule to keep." The handler advised before turning away to board the jet, he spoke over his shoulder as he walked. "And if he goes complaining to anybody, none of this happened."

Clint laughed, motioning Natasha dramatically towards the jet's bay door.

"Shall we?"

"If you had just walked away, we could have avoided the entire confrontation." She pointed out, leading the way onto the jet.

"Like  _you_  would have walked away." He countered, passing her to climb into the pilot seat. He started his pre flight checks with one hand while putting his ear buds back in their place with his other. "We need an iPod hook up in here, Phil." He tossed over his shoulder as the engines hummed to life under his control.

"I'll get right on that." Phil replied absently, already sorting through files in his seat.

"Romanoff? Wanna learn to fly the jet yet?" Clint twisted to look at her.

Natasha was sitting in the seat directly behind the co-pilot seat.

"No." She refused simply.

"It's a good idea." Coulson advised, glancing up at her from his file. "Don't you think you've put it off long enough?" He arched an eyebrow.

She narrowed her eyes, glancing from him to Clint.

"Fine." She snapped, stalking the three steps to the co-pilot chair and sliding into it. "Teach me." She waved at the control panel demonstratively.

"Baby steps, Romanoff. Once I get us air borne, I'll let you take her for a spin." Clint laughed. He slipped his headphones out of his ears and pulled on the headset and then motioned her to do the same with the set sitting next to her. "This is Quinjet Alpha-Zulu-0-7-3-1, am I cleared to exit the hangar?" He spoke into the microphone that curved around in front of his mouth from the headset.

" _All clear, Alpha-Zulu-0-7-3-1."_

"Roger that, engaging throttle in 3-2-1-engaged."

Natasha felt the power of the engines come to life as Clint slowly eased what she assumed was the throttle forward. The jet slowly taxied forward until it was completely out of the hangar.

" _Cleared for takeoff, Alpha-Zulu-0-7-3-1."_

"Engaging thrusters in 3-2-1-engaged." Clint eased another control forward and the jet rose vertically from the ground. Natasha watched them rise until they were above the highest point of the SHEILD base. Then Clint pushed forward on the throttle and they shot forward.

Natasha watched him use one hand to steer the jet and the other to pull the headset off one ear and put his precious ear bud back into place. He handled the jet so effortlessly, barely seemed to be paying attention to what he was doing as he started patting his pockets for something.

"Hey Phil?"

"Here." Coulson leaned up and held out a pair of black sunglasses.

"Where did I…"

"In your pack." Coulson answered the question before Clint could get it out.

Natasha didn't know how they did that.

"Ready to take her?" Clint asked, oblivious to her observations.

"I don't know which way to go." She pointed out.

"That," he pointed at a small screen on the console. "Is a GPS. As long as your little plane is on that green line, you're good. Now, see those twin levers?" She nodded, "Put a hand on each of them." He glanced at her, "Hold them like you mean it, Romanoff." He instructed. She gripped the twin levers more confidently. "Okay, now I'm going to let go. This baby is pretty responsive so  _subtle_  movements. Go ahead, take her for a spin."

Clint sat back and waited. Nothing happened. They continued flying in a straight, uninterrupted line. He glanced at his co-pilot. Natasha was sitting rigidly, her hands tight around the levers.

"Relax, Romanoff." He coaxed. "I'll get us back on track, just get to know her, turn left, turn right."

She pursed her lips and moved the right lever. The jet banked sharply.

"Subtle!" Clint reminded, tossing an apologetic look at Coulson, who was retrieving a file that had slipped off his lap onto the floor.

It was too late; Natasha was already overcorrecting back to the left. Clint unhooked his harness, slipped off his headset and moved to her side. Without asking permission, he wrapped his hands around hers, and eased them back to the right path.

"Now." Clint instructed quietly, "Subtle movements." He repeated, gently moving her right hand. The jet smoothly coasted into a soft turn. "And then back…" he eased her left hand and the jet smoothly sailed back to where it had been. "Your turn." He turned his head to look at her, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was to her. Her emerald green eyes were staring straight at him, her expression blank. But there was intensity in her eyes. There was always intensity in her eyes.

He cleared his throat and stepped back.

Natasha silently released the breath she'd been holding ever since he'd leaned over her to help her pilot. She swallowed, leaned forward, and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Carefully, she eased the jet to the right, then to the left, and then eyed the GPS and made a minor correction so they were back on the correct path.

"Very good." Clint praised, moving back to his seat. He cleared his throat again when he saw Coulson watching him seriously and slid back into the pilot's chair.


	2. To Make It Through The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to ALittleReckless and Shazrolane - my reviewers of Chapter 1 :) 
> 
> Enjoy Chapter 2!

_Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_

**_Emily Brontë_ **

* * *

"Why do we always have a safe house with roof access?" Natasha asked Coulson curiously as they waited for Clint to return from where he was picking up take out from his  _favorite_  little place in this city.

Natasha had learned that Clint always had a favorite little place wherever they went. She didn't know when he'd found time on SHIELD missions to develop such a taste for local cuisine, but his choices were  _always_  tasty. Sometimes he cooked for them instead, managing to make amazing dishes from ingredients she couldn't even identify. She didn't know where he'd learned to cook, but he was exceptionally good at it.

They didn't always have safe houses on missions. Sometimes she and Clint were moving the entire time, finding a place to sleep on the fly. But she'd noticed about a year into their partnership that every safe house Coulson set them up with had direct roof access. She'd made no comment at the time, because she liked roof access too. But after  _two_  years of the same consideration, she had to know why Coulson went to the trouble.

"If Clint had his choice, he'd travel by rooftop everywhere he went." Coulson replied easily from where he was staring at an old coffee machine, waiting patiently for it to finish brewing.

Natasha nodded. She knew that already. Clint was arguably more agile than even  _she_  was when they parkoured across rooftops. When she asked how he got so good at it, he would shrug and make a joke about running off to join the circus as a child. She would always roll her eyes and wonder why he couldn't give a straight answer to a question.

"So?" She asked when Coulson didn't seem as if he were going to continue.

"He feels safer when he as direct access to the roof. Like you with windows."

Natasha nodded. She loved windows, specifically climbing in and out of them. Clint never seemed to enjoy  _that_  very much, usually mumbled something about crashing through them too often to like them very much.

She watched Coulson pour three cups of coffee. One he left unaltered. That was his, she knew. One he added a hint of cream to, that was hers. The final one he added cream and an unholy amount of sugar. Barton's. The man was addicted to sugar. He ate it all the time in many different forms, and yet still kept himself in nearly perfect physical condition.

Coulson kept track of the most innocuous things. Natasha didn't remember ever telling him how she liked her coffee. Or that she liked having a window with a conveniently located drain pipe nearby. He just always seemed to know.

The door suddenly swung open and Clint strode in carrying several containers of deliciously fragrant food.

"Dinner is served." He announced. He placed one of the containers in front of Natasha. " _Bánh canh_  for the fiery spider."

She gave him a glare for the nickname and then eyed the food skeptically.

"Trust me." He winked.

She eyed the food again and hesitantly tasted it. She smiled suddenly and quickly took another bite.

"You like it?" He grinned.

She quickly schooled her features to a mask of indifference.

"It's adequate." She allowed.

Clint rolled his eyes and held out Coulson's container demonstratively.

" _Bún Thịt Nướng_ for you." He set it at Coulson's place as the handler carefully carried their coffees to the table.

"Thank you." Coulson smiled in thanks. "You get your usual?"

"I won't eat  _Bánh tằm cà ri_ from anywhere else." Clint replied already digging into his dish before he'd even taken his seat. He took his coffee from Coulson gratefully.

"I considered adding some coffee to your sugar, but then thought better of it." Phil smirked.

"You know me so well."

* * *

Natasha stirred from her sleep suddenly, unsure what had woken her. She laid completely still, instinctively keeping her eyes closed and her breathing even as she used her other senses to figure out what had woken her.

She didn't hear anything, didn't sense anything amiss in the room. Satisfied, she opened her eyes and sat up, looking around. She frowned when she noticed the two other cots in the room were empty. Both men were gone.

Curious, she slid off her cot and moved silently to the door. It opened without a sound and she moved out onto the roof. She heard them before she saw them. The low rumble that was Clint's voice was a sound she could identify anywhere. He somehow managed to speak with a remarkably quite tone that carried an intensity most had to yell to achieve. She had noticed that tone intimidated people more effectively than if he barked forcefully at them.

The tone fit him.

She crept around the corner that was the outer wall to their room and froze, drawing back. They were sitting casually, side by side, their legs dangling over the edge of the building. Clint had apparently just finished whatever he'd been telling Coulson, because he sighed deeply, shaking his head in a familiar show of self-derision. She'd never met anyone who was as hard on themselves as Clint Barton.

She watched Coulson reach out and squeeze Clint's shoulder in a show of affection she was used to seeing. Coulson did that and similar gestures with her partner often. He could convey several different things with that shoulder squeeze. Natasha had seen him do it to comfort, to calm, to refocus, to physically restrain, and she was sure there were several other meanings she hadn't noticed. When they sparred, which was considerably less often these days because Clint sparred with Natasha most of the time, she'd seen Coulson grip the back of the archer's neck in a playfully affectionate fashion as he crowed his praise for a particularly fantastic move.

They were what she imagined two brothers would be like if they worked for a covert agency. Coulson was the older, protective, and more serious brother. Clint was the younger, rash, and more energetic brother. And somehow they just  _fit_.

She refocused when she heard Coulson speak.

"It was a long time ago, Clint. Over six years."

"I know. Being here just brings it back." Clint replied quietly, Natasha shifted against the wall she was hiding behind, pulling back so she couldn't see or be seen should they turn around. She could still hear them though, and wondered if she should feel bad about eavesdropping.

"You had the same dream last time we were here." Coulson remembered.

"Some days I think it's getting better, you know?" Clint sighed. "When I haven't had one of these dreams in a while and I think that maybe next time I do, it won't be so bad. Then I have one and it guts me, as usual."

"I'd be more concerned if it didn't gut you." Coulson pointed out quietly. "It'll never be  _easy_ , Clint, you know that. It's in all of that "not easy" that you know you're one of the good guys."

She could imagine Clint's warm smile at that, the smile that was usually reserved for Coulson alone. She wondered what it would feel like to have a smile like that meant just for you.

"And it  _is_  getting better." Their handler went on. "You haven't had one of these in what? Six weeks?"

"Sounds about right."

"Well there you go."

Natasha rested her head against the brick of the wall as she listened. She wondered what they were talking about. What it was that Clint dreamed, apparently with decreasing frequency, that affected him so deeply. He dreamed more often than every six weeks. She knew that for a fact. When you operated in close quarters with someone as much as she did with Barton, you learned their sleeping patterns.

She'd woken from her own nightmares while on a mission with him, only to watch him flinch awake minutes or hours later. He would always look around with wild eyed terror for a few moments before inevitably focusing on her and blinking away his emotions. He would take a calming breath and without fail do one of two things. Bee-line it for the roof without a word. Or he would stare at her with that heavy intensity his eyes got sometimes before seeming to come to terms with whatever he'd dreamed and promptly return to sleep.

That look of wild terror cut her deeply every time. Because Clint was the strongest person she had ever known and whatever put that look in his eyes must have been horrifying. She would see that look and have to fight the urge to tell him firmly that he was  _safe_.

Then there were the times she could only guess that he'd dreamed, because he was awake when she flinched awake. There were times when just looking at him sitting up in his bed, back against the wall, ear buds in, head leaned back and bouncing in a rhythm to whatever song he was listening to, and his eyes closed, settled her frayed nerves and emotions enough that she could just roll over and go back to sleep.

There were other times she'd wake to find him watching her with that heavy, intense gaze that could say so much more than his mouth when he wanted it to. He would nod once, and she'd nod back. He would watch her back. She always slept soundly after those exchanges.

Finally there were the times when she'd wake and he'd be nowhere to be seen. He'd stay gone, on the roof she assumed, until dawn. Then he'd walk back into their safe house as if nothing had happened.

She pulled herself out of her musings when she heard them standing. Quickly and with silence born of a lifetime of training, she retraced her steps, slipping back inside a breath before they rounded the corner. She slipped back into bed and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. They came back in quietly and Coulson returned immediately to his cot. Clint moved more slowly to his, sitting down with a sigh.

She heard him rustling in his pack and resisted the urge to open her eyes and see what he was doing. She heard his cot creak as he shifted more fully onto it and then all was silent. Without realizing it, she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Clint watched Natasha pretend to sleep, wondering if she'd give up the ruse. She didn't, and he realized a few minutes later that she'd drifted off. He glanced down at his iPod and switched tracks. He sighed quietly, the relaxing tones of  _The Eagles_  filling his head and focusing his mind.

He returned his eyes to his partner, staring at her fiery red hair, splayed out across her pillow. He'd always heard red heads had tempers to match the shade of their hair. The Russian assassin proved that saying undeniably true. She would be absolutely calm and collected, seemingly unruffled and unaffected. Until she wasn't. Then you'd better run like hell because when she got pissed enough to show it, heads tended to roll.

She was a complex creature, his partner.

Like when she spied on him when she thought he wouldn't notice.

She'd been watching them tonight. He'd felt her eyes on his back while he'd been sitting with Coulson. The time between his nightmares from his year as an assassin were becoming more few and far between. But he still needed to talk it out with Coulson when they did rear their ugly head. When he and Romanoff were on mission on their own and Coulson wasn't there, he called him. And damn it if his friend didn't answer the phone every time, no matter what hour it was.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about his nightmares. He focused again on Natasha and wondered idly if she'd dreamed tonight and that's why she'd woken, only to find them gone. She had nightmares nearly as often as he did. He'd wake sometimes to find her watching him. Or he'd wake, only to watch her wake a short time later.

He knew what nights her dreams were worse. Because on those nights, she would look at him with a look of unshielded vulnerability and he'd do his best to show her with his own eyes that it was okay. She was safe with him. He didn't think she knew how much she revealed in those moments, how deeply she let him see into her soul. She kept to close a guard on her every thought and feeling to ever let that much show intentionally.

He knew he helped, at least in some small way. Because usually, unless it was really bad, the vulnerability and fear would fade and she would nod back when he nodded at her and then roll over and go back to sleep. He was glad he could help. He was glad he could do for her what Phil always did for him.

She shifted in her sleep and Clint waited until she settled again before shifting to lie down again. Eventually his mind quieted and  _"Hotel California"_  filled every space in his consciousness and he drifted to sleep.

* * *

Natasha watched Coulson move over to Clint's bed. The archer slept like a soldier in the trenches, and had for as long as she'd known him. Even with his ear buds in and his iPod playing, she knew his highly trained body would be attuned to his surroundings. The only reason he was still sleeping now was because he knew, even subconsciously, that she and Coulson weren't threats.

Even so, all Phil had to do was touch the archer's foot lightly and his eyes flashed open.

"Breakfast." Coulson stated simply.

Clint reached to rub his eyes, stretching his lithe body out to its full length.

Natasha looked away abruptly when she caught herself staring. She glanced self-consciously at Coulson, who was watching her thoughtfully. She shifted her gaze away, choosing to study a pattern in the wood of their table.

Clint stood from his cot, ear buds still in place, and stretched again.

Natasha wished he'd just get stretched already.

"You made breakfast?" Clint moved to Coulson's side.

"I got the ingredients for  _you_  to make breakfast." The handler announced with a smirk.

Clint hummed doubtfully. Giving Coulson a look that spoke volumes.

"You won't  _eat_  what I make." Coulson defended.

Clint shrugged.

"True."

Without further discussion, Clint got to work.

Natasha didn't think kitchen knives were meant to be spun around one's hands quite as much as Clint tended to. It did make it entertaining to watch him cook though. She found herself watching him more than she studied the map she was supposed to be learning. Clint had learned it on the flight in about five minutes.

That was another area Clint was more skilled than she was. While they could both memorize maps and building layouts before a mission was put into motion. It took him a fraction of the time it took her. He'd told her once that he had a photographic memory. She envied him that.

With a sigh, she tore her gaze away from his back and focused on her map, imprinting it into her brain.

* * *

They ate in mostly silence. Clint was reviewing the route he was going to take for his surveillance run. Natasha continued to study the map of the area surrounding the compound they were targeting. Coulson was reading  _The New York Times_. Neither of the assassins knew where he'd gotten it from.

After breakfast Clint went over his route with both of them, so they would know exactly where he was if something went wrong. Then he changed his shirt, slipped his quiver onto his back and secured his folded bow into its slot at the small of his back.

"Don't look so depressed, Romanoff. I'll be back before you know it." Clint teased before tossing them a two fingered salute and disappearing out the door.

Natasha scowled at the door as it swung closed. She had agreed, ungracefully, that Clint would move faster alone. He knew the area from past visits and since it was just a look-and-see surveillance run, she wasn't really needed. It didn't mean she was happy about Clint being out there without someone to watch his back. Her partner was a trouble magnet on his best day.

They expected him to get within binocular distance within about four hours. Another several hours to watch, move around the compound, and scope out what they were dealing with. Then another four hours to get back. If all went well, he'd be back for dinner.

"Comm check."

Her attention was pulled from the door and to Coulson, who had settled in front of his computer. She moved to sit next to him, accepting the earpiece he offered her.

" _You know, you can let me get more than twenty seconds away before checking in. I promise I haven't fallen off any rooftops yet."_

Natasha rolled her eyes. Her partner was such a smart ass sometimes. It drove her crazy. Coulson just smirked though and came back with his own smart ass comment that had Natasha applauding in her head.

"Well you do have a tendency to  _fall_  out of, off of, and down from things."

" _I don't_ _ **fall**_ _."_  Clint sounded downright offended,  _"I_ _ **jump**_ _or get_ _ **pushed**_ _. I don't fall."_

"If you say so."

" _Romanoff, how's it going? Miss me yet?"_

Coulson smiled at Clint's blatant attempt to ignore him.

"I'm relishing the silence." She replied with a smirk.

" _If that were true, you wouldn't be so excited to talk to me right now."_  She could hear the smirk in his words. She rolled her eyes.

"You're absolutely right." She smirked. "He's all yours." She motioned at Coulson. "I'm going for a run to enjoy the silence."

Coulson nodded in understanding. Something about putting Clint on a comm. line made the man turn into a chatter box. He'd been that way since Phil had known him.

Natasha slipped out of the safe house silently and Phil turned his attention back to his agent in the field.

"Try not to get into any trouble."

" _I never_ _ **try**_ _, Phil."_  Clint pointed out.  _"This is just a look-see, I'll be back by dinner."_

"Keep the line open, but otherwise you can go silent. Check in when you get into position."

" _Talk to you in a few hours."_

"Stay safe."

" _Always."_

Coulson pulled out his ear piece and made sure his computer was monitoring Clint's comm. If Clint said anything, he'd hear it through the computer and have time to put his ear piece back in if a response was needed. He pulled his stack of files from his bag and sat down at the table.

* * *

"Guards here, here, here, and here." Clint pointed marked four different points on the satellite image they had of the compound. "They rotated in two man teams on a two hour schedule and always kept their eyes on the tree line or the water."

"Training?" Coulson asked tossing Clint a blue Gatorade from the fridge. The archer caught it and immediately unscrewed the top.

"Pretty legit. I'd guess they're hired mercs. Paid to keep prying eyes out."

"Entry points for the building itself?" Natasha asked after giving Clint a chance to take a swallow from his drink. She pushed her hair over her shoulder, still wet from the shower she'd just taken.

"Two. Here and here." He made two more marks on the image. "We get past the guards and we'd be in good shape. They never once glanced back at the compound. They aren't worried about keeping people in, just keeping people out."

"So we need to find a way to get inside the fence without them seeing us."

"Good thing we're extra sneaky."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"It needs to be quick. Get in, take out Carter and his men, get out." Coulson instructed.

"What about the people being held inside the compound?" Clint asked. "We breach the compound and they're all dead."

"You know the mission, Clint. Destroying this operation is the priority." Coulson reminded quietly.

Clint shook his head, obviously in disagreement, and looked away. Natasha looked back and forth between them before pulling their focus back to the map.

"Where are we operating from? I don't know about him," She nodded at Clint, "but I don't want to spend four hours getting there and then have to run the op. That's asking for fatigue mistakes."

"Agreed." Coulson nodded. "Satellite footage shows that there's a small hut here." He circled a location on their map. "It's a little out of the way. But it's only an hour's hike from the compound. You can get there, run your final surveillance, rest up for a night, and then do the op. If all goes well, you can rest up there again before heading back."

Clint leaned forward to look at the location.

"I saw that place. Good place to hide out. Good visibility and easy escape into the woods if needed."

"Good. You two can head out in the morning. With any luck we can be headed home in a few days. I'll stay here, monitor radio chatter, get plugged into our satellite and basically sit on my hands while you guys do the fun stuff."

"Awe, Phil, that was depressing." Clint chuckled, pushing himself to his feet and downing the last of his Gatorade. "Next mission, I'll let  _you_ do the four hour preliminary surveillance run and I'll stay at the safe house."

"That's so generous." Coulson glared.

Clint laughed and moved towards the bathroom to shower, stopping to grab a fresh set of clothes from his bag. Natasha packed their gear while he bathed and was already lying down on her cot when he emerged, towel drying his hair, cargo pants riding low on his hips and t-shirt tossed over his shoulder.

She didn't realize she'd been staring until his back was to her and he was pulling on the shirt, hiding the scars she didn't know the stories to. Clint had never been particularly cagey about her seeing his any of his, admittedly numerous, scars. But he'd never volunteered any explanation for them either. It was almost like he'd forgotten some of them were there. Like the ones on his back, that she'd never seen him acknowledge.

Clint was either oblivious to her observation of him, or just too tired to care, because he just lay down, jerked his sheet over him, and closed his eyes. His breathing evened in seconds. Coulson moved quietly to his cot and lay down as well.

Natasha rolled onto her side, putting her back to the wall out of habit, and let out a sigh as she closed her eyes. She hoped both she and Clint slept through the night. It was going to be a long couple of days.

She reflected ruefully, later, that she hadn't known the half of it.

* * *

Clint woke with a sharp inhalation, eyes snapping open to assess if the threat he'd been subject to in his dream was actually present or not. Of course it wasn't. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He supposed dreaming of the clusterfuck of a mission Croatia turned out to be was better than remembering another name. Even if it did make his shoulder ache at the memory of the bullet he'd taken for Phil.

He needed fresh air, just for a minute. Maybe do some parkour to clear his mind. Silently, he rose from his cot, glaring at it when it creaked. He picked up his socks and his boots, intending to put them on outside, and made for the door. He had just stepped out into the night when he felt her behind him.

He turned, watching her close the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked in confusion.

"I could ask you the same thing." She replied, arching an eyebrow in amusement at his bare feet.

"Just gonna clear my head a little and go back to sleep." He shrugged, balancing easily on one foot to pull on a sock and shoe and then switch and do the same for the other foot.

"Do you mind company?" She asked, her green eyes glowing a little from the light of the moon. Clint glanced at her, taking in the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the very subtle hint of desperation in her tone. She'd had a dream.

"Not at all." He assured.

She smiled gratefully and followed him as he moved to the edge of the roof.

"Once around the block?" He offered.

She nodded and they were off.

Twenty minutes later they rolled, almost in synchronization back onto their roof, both rising to their feet easily.

"Think you can sleep now?" Clint asked as they moved towards the door.

She nodded, eyeing him curiously.

"You?"

"Think so." He nodded, pulling the door open and allowing her to precede him in. They moved silently to their cots.

"Thank you." She whispered almost too quietly for him to hear.

"Anytime." He replied in the same tone.

From the cot across the room, Coulson listened. He'd woken to find them both gone. Unconcerned, because  _honestly_  they were highly trained assassins and could take care of themselves, he'd waited for them to return. He hadn't expected them to return together. He hadn't expected them to have left together. He frowned slightly and hoped this wasn't heading where he thought it was heading. There were rules and protocols for that sort of thing.

Of course he knew  _exactly_  what Clint thought of rules and protocols.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 2
> 
> As for the Vietnamese food's Clint got. I got those off the internet and they're supposed to be actual dishes. I don't know, I've never been to Vietnam. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> "Door is opening." Natasha announced. Her breath caught sharply a moment later. "Barton."
> 
> "What is it?" He asked sharply, hearing horror and anger in her tone. He shifted to see what she was seeing. "Shit."
> 
> "Barton, those are children."


	3. What About Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_There comes a point in your life when you realize who really matters, who never did, and who always will._

**_Unknown_ **

* * *

"Clint?"

The archer looked up from where he was stretching, standing closer to the edge of the roof than anyone else ever would. Coulson came to stand next to him.

"What's up?"

"We need to talk." Coulson started.

"Okay." Clint straightened, granting him a confused look. "What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong?" Coulson frowned.

"You've got your 'something's wrong' face."

Coulson chose not to respond to that comment. Instead he said what he'd come to say.

"I want you to be careful."

Clint looked even more confused.

"I thought that went without saying these days, Phil."

"I meant with Romanoff."

Clint's expression suddenly closed off, which was more telling for Coulson than any words would be.

"What are you talking about?"

"I think you know." Coulson stared at him meaningfully.

Clint stared back, refusing to acknowledge any truth in Coulson's words.

"It's not a good idea."

Clint crossed his arms over his chest.

"You've got it wrong, Phil."

"Do I?" Coulson challenged, a hint of sarcasm sliding into his tone. "Don't play games with me Clint. I've seen the way you watch her."

Clint's jaw twitched and he shifted his gaze away from Coulson's. That was all the confession Phil needed. He sighed, not enjoying this any more than Clint.

"Just keep it professional, okay?"

Clint nodded, still not meeting his eyes, his arms still crossed defensively. Coulson tried, unsuccessfully to get him to look at him.

"Clint…"

"I get it, Phil." Clint snapped. "I get it." He repeated more calmly. Then he strode past him back towards the door.

"Clint!" Phil called after him, partly exasperated partly concerned.

"It's getting late, we need to get going." Clint tossed over his shoulder.

Coulson sighed in frustration. That had gone about as well as he'd hoped it would.

* * *

Clint was pulling his quiver into place when Coulson came back into the room. Natasha already had her pack in place on her back and her guns strapped to her thighs. She was eyeing Clint cautiously, his hard expression not having escaped her attention.

Clint swung his pack over his shoulder and moved towards the door.

"Let's go, we're wasting daylight."

Coulson caught his arm as he tried to pass.

"He'll meet you out there." He gave Natasha a meaningful look.

She nodded and slipped past them onto the roof.

"Clint…" Coulson started.

"I'm not an eighteen year old kid anymore, Phil." Clint interrupted.

Coulson drew back, surprised.

"I know that."

"I don't just do things without thinking about it first. And right now, the only thing I'm thinking about is the mission, okay?"

Coulson narrowed his eyes, studying Clint closely.

"I swear, Phil." Clint promised. "Whatever's in my head about her is on the way back burner, okay?"

The handler nodded and released Clint's arm.

"We'll check in when we get to the house."

Coulson nodded again and stepped to the side so Clint had a clean lane to the door.

"See you in a few days, Phil."

"Be safe," Phil demanded, " _Both_  of you."

"Always." Clint smirked, clapping Coulson on the shoulder before striding out of the room.

Coulson watched him go, hoping that would be the end of whatever was brewing between the Hawk and the Widow.

Something told him it wasn't the end, though. Not even close.

* * *

"Everything okay?" Natasha asked as Clint joined her on the roof.

"Yeah. Phil can just be overprotective sometimes." He replied, leading the way to the edge of the roof.

"Overprotective? About what?" She wondered.

Clint shot her a sideways look.

"Nothing." He replied. "Doesn't matter."

She dropped the subject and followed when he leapt to the next building. The continued in silence all the way out of the small coastal town and into the forest beyond it.

They'd been moving along in silence for several minutes before Clint spoke.

"So, you been to Vietnam before?" He asked.

He was honestly curious. Even after two years of partnership, he and Natasha didn't really  _talk_. They communicated. They bantered. They teased. They asked questions and gave evasive answers. Sometimes. But they had never talked about anything personal. Not since those days in France three years ago when he'd decided not to kill her.

She glanced at him curiously.

"No." She admitted simply. She hesitated a moment before posing her own question. "How do you have a favorite place to eat everywhere we go?"

"I've traveled a lot." He responded evasively.

She rolled her eyes.

" _And_  I really like food."

She grinned at that, hearing the smirk in his tone without seeing it.

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"Madrid." He answered, holding a branch out of the way for her.

A knowing gleam swept into her eyes and Clint cocked his head curiously.

"You've been?"

"Several times."

"Ever eat at  _La Toscana_?"

He saw the memory light her eyes and knew she had. Her single nod of confirmation made it certain.

"That's my favorite." He continued with a wistful smile. Natasha couldn't help but quirk her lips at his expression. They continued in silence for a ways.

She glanced at him, watching him vault easily over a mess of fallen trees. She followed with the same ease. She wasn't surprised when he never pulled out their map, never fished the compass out of his pack, just moved without hesitation through the trees. He'd made this journey once before already, and that trip would have been when he used the navigation tools. He'd done it once now, so he just remembered.

He had the most uncanny sense of direction.

She reflected, as they walked, that it hadn't been unpleasant, talking about the countries they'd been to. The little restaurants Clint remembered and loved. It ignited a curiosity in her, a desire to know what places he liked in the other countries she'd visited. It had given her a little thrill to have him mention  _her_  favorite restaurant in Madrid.

It was something they had in common other than an innate ability to kill.

"Have you ever been to Moscow?" She asked without giving herself a chance to talk herself out of it. If he was surprised that she'd posed a question of her own, instigated the continuation of their conversation, he didn't show it. Though Clint's expression rarely showed anything, except when he was around Coulson.

"A few times." He smiled a little.

"There was this little place next to the river," She revealed, glancing at him to see if any sort of recognition lit his expression. His blue-grey eyes brightened and a smile curved his lips. She could only smile when he stated the name of the place she was remembering unerringly.

* * *

"Next time we're in Tokyo, I'm taking you there." Clint smiled as he led the way into the small clearing that housed the small cottage that was going to be their base of operations. "Here we are." He announced.

"Shall we?" She granted him a grin, an expression that had become easier over the last three hours as they hiked and talked about the many places they'd traveled and the different restaurants Clint loved and hated. The conversation had been almost  _comfortable_.

Clint pulled the door open and gallantly held it back for her.

"After you."

He followed her through the doorway, pulling it closed firmly behind him.

It wasn't much. There was a back window that backed up almost directly to the trees. There was exactly  _one_  bed, big enough to hold them both if they didn't mind sleeping back to back with no room to move.

There were two windows in the front, both with no glass, no curtains, and no shutters. The kitchen consisted of a table. He'd seen a well outside and that would have to serve as their water source. No bathroom.

Clint watched Natasha walk around and inspect their new accommodations. If she was bothered by any of it, it didn't show. She started unpacking her weapons from her pack on the table, undoubtedly to clean them. Clint would do the same after he checked in.

He clicked on his ear piece as he watched her unpack weapons like the space in her pack was never ending. He had to give it to her. The woman knew her weapons. Clint knew his bow. He knew his sniper rifle. He knew how to operate handguns with his normal deadly accuracy and he liked to always have a knife on him. But Natasha, he reflected as she removed an unholy number of hidden knives from her person, knew how to use almost any weapon with a deadly subtlety. His subtlety stemmed from his distance from his targets. Natasha, conversely, could get close to anyone and kill them with almost any weapon. She could charm, seduce, and lie her way into any situation. Then kill whoever her target was and be gone before anyone even knew something was amiss. Nobody ever knew how dangerous she was until she delivered her deadly bite.

"We're at the secondary location." He announced over the comm line.

" _A bit later than I expected."_  Coulson replied immediately.

"We took our time." Clint replied easily, dropping his pack on the floor and moving to look out the front window.

" _What's your plan?"_

"Rest up and make preparations for now. Do another round of surveillance tonight. Put together a plan and make our move in the morning."

Natasha came to stand with him.

" _Keep me updated."_

"You got it."

He clicked off the ear piece.

"Food first?" Natasha offered, holding out a MRE.

Clint took it with a slight grimace.

"It's all we have." She shrugged, moving back to the table and ripping into her own meal. Clint followed her, snagging his pack from the ground and moving to sit on the floor against the bed. He tore open his meal and took a bite, chewing as he spread his weapons out across the floor.

They both cleaned their diverse array of weapons in silence.

"That's a beautiful knife." Natasha stated suddenly.

Clint looked up, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her. She wondered idly what he'd been thinking about. He looked down at the knife he'd been polishing.

"Phil gave it to me last year to commemorate 5 years of being at SHIELD." He explained with a small, genuine smile. "Never leave home without it."

Natasha felt her own lips quirk in a similar smile. That was sweet in the way only a deadly assassin could be. She watched Clint admire the weapon for a moment before sliding it back into its sheath. She wondered what it would be like, to have someone so important to you that a simple knife became a treasured possession.

"How did you meet Agent Coulson?" She asked suddenly, unsure why she'd blurted the question that had been floating through her mind.

"Well, he cornered me in an alley in Vienna and proceeded to kick my ass. Then he invited me to join SHIELD."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. That sounded like a painfully simplified version of what was probably a very interesting story. She supposed she shouldn't have expected any different. She would have answered with the same simplicity had the questioning been reversed.

Maybe one day she'd get the whole story and finally start to understand the brotherhood between her partner and their handler. She wasn't holding her breath, though. Clint was as cagey about his past as she was. It was too personal of a thing to tell just anyone. Like first names. She  _knew_  his to be Clint, but she'd never addressed him as such. He was Barton or Hawkeye. They were partners, trusted enough not to kill each other in their sleep and to prevent anyone else from doing so, but not truly trusted. Not the real, deep trust that ran so think between the Hawk and Coulson.

That kind of trust was formed in fire.

* * *

"We'd have to take out two teams of guards if we want to get in." Clint sighed, lowering his binoculars. "There's no way around it."

"Then we have the issue of them being missed." Natasha pointed out, lowering her binoculars and looking over at him.

Clint sighed.

"Yeah."

"We've infiltrated more heavily guarded compounds."

He tilted his head in agreement.

They'd been watching the compound for three hours now. They'd made the trek as night was falling so they were protected by the darkness as they watched. They were laid out side by side on their stomachs at the very edge of the tree line. Their vantage point was risky, because the guards kept their eyes on the tree line almost incessantly. They'd had to wait for forty five minutes for the guards to change before they could get into position during the 30 second window when the two new guards were approaching and the two old guards had turned to walk away.

Needless to say, they couldn't move much now that they were in position. Natasha's fire colored hair was pulled back in a messy, low bun at the base of her neck and a black beanie covered the rest of it. Clint had a black baseball hat turned backwards to cover his sandy blonde hair. They both had black paint smeared on their faces, black fingerless gloves, long sleeved black shirts and black pants. Unless someone was already looking for them, they wouldn't be seen in the darkness of the night unless they drew attention to themselves by moving around too much.

"Do you see that?" Clint squinted out at the water. Natasha turned her green gaze to try and see what he was asking about.

"Is that a boat?"

"It's coming into their dock." Clint frowned. He brought his binoculars back up and Natasha did the same. "Jesus, those are cages."

"Empty." Natasha noticed.

"Must be a pick up." Clint sighed. "I fuckin' hate slave traders."

"Look." She nodded towards the compound. "I think that's our main man."

Clint turned his binoculars to watch the man that was striding across the yard towards the dock. He'd studied Alan Carter's picture enough to know it was him.

"Oh that's the ass hat alright." Clint agreed. They watched him shake hands with the man that stepped off the newly docked boat. They talked with familiarity for several minutes.

"What are they saying?" Natasha asked, knowing her partner would be tracking the conversation to the best of his lip reading ability.

"Pleasantries." He replied, binoculars trained on the two men. "Carter's asking about the trip. The other is asking about the weather. Could these two  _be_  anymore fake? Even I can tell they can barely stand each other. Okay, the new player is asking about the shipment." Clint scowled, "Shipment? Grow a pair shit head and call it what it is."

"Shit Head and Ass Hat. What a pair." Natasha smirked.

"They deserve each other." Clint agreed. "Okay, Ass Hat is asking for the payment.  _That_  bag looks heavy." They watched Carter have one of his men check the duffle full of money. "Shit Head is demanding the product."

Carter raised a radio to his mouth, blocking Clint's view.

"Door is opening." Natasha announced. Her breath caught sharply a moment later. "Barton."

"What is it?" He asked sharply, hearing horror and anger in her tone. He shifted to see what she was seeing. "Shit."

"Barton, those are children."

Clint watched in horrified silence as a group of twenty children of varied races were marched across the yard and herded into the cages on the boat. Natasha was equally affected. They didn't speak again until the boat had pulled away from the dock and was sailing away.

"There are probably more children inside." Natasha pointed out with forced calm.

"Yeah." Clint agreed, glaring at Carter through his binoculars as the man returned to the building and disappeared inside.

"This mission is to destroy the base. Captives are a secondary priority."

"Uh-huh." Clint grunted, turning his gaze to the guards nearest them. They would change shifts in just a few minutes.

"What do we do?" She asked, because there was no way they were sticking with the mission parameters.

Clint lowered his binoculars, but continued to watch the compound with a dark glare.

"We change our priorities."

Natasha blinked at the heat in his tone. It wasn't often that Barton let emotions cloud his judgment. He was the most patient and collect person she knew, besides Coulson. But there was emotion in every part of his expression now. She knew her own expression was similar.

Children were a weakness for both of them apparently.

"We're going to get whatever kids are left in there out and to safety. And then we're going to come back and burn that place to the ground." He decided. "The guards are changing, let's go."

Natasha moved with him and waited until they were a distance away before speaking.

"I wish we could do something _now_." She stated angrily.

"You're not alone in that." Clint assured. "But if I learned one thing over the last six years with SHIELD, it's that acting rashly only gets you into deep shit."

"And turning this into a rescue mission isn't rash?" She shot back.

"It's a calculated risk, worth the possible result." He replied.

She didn't disagree.

"If we do this, Fury is going to be pissed." She pointed out.

"Wouldn't be the first time I pissed the man off." Clint managed a smirk, giving her a meaningful look. "It was worth it last time."

Natasha was grateful he turned to face forward again and didn't see the flush that rose on her cheeks at the compliment. She knew all too well what Clint had risked the night he decided to bring her in instead of kill her. He had risked his career, his life, and perhaps most importantly to him, his relationship with his handler. Coulson had been just as furious with him as Fury. At first. But it was no secret that the handler had a soft spot for SHIELD's resident archer. It had turned out alright in the end, but she knew it hadn't been a decision Clint had made lightly.

"We're still completing the mission." Natasha reasoned. "Just with a few modifications."

"Yeah. I'm sure if I tell Fury that, he won't be pissed at all."

She grinned at his sarcasm, glad he was finding something to lighten the situation. Because the truth was, they were breaking protocol in the worst fashion and they were doing it blatantly. Coulson had always backed their play, but she knew, and she knew Clint knew, that his protection could only go so far. He wouldn't be able to protect them from this. Just like he hadn't been able to protect Clint when he went against the entire agency to bring her in.

"Coulson will back you, Barton." She assured quietly.

Clint sighed deeply as he walked and his shoulders sagged.

"That's what I'm worried about."

Clint knew Phil would back him no matter what. And in doing so, put his own position at SHIELD at risk. He hated putting his friend in that position. But he couldn't just stand by and let kids get traded and killed. He had to do something.

He knew Phil would understand for better or worse.

* * *

He tapped his communicator as soon as they walked into the safe house.

"Phil."

 _"How'd it go?"_  His handler sounded unreasonably tense, as if he knew something terrible had happened.

"We've got a problem."

_"What happened?"_

"They're trafficking kids, Phil." Clint revealed quietly.

There was silence over the comm and Clint glanced at Natasha who had turned on her own earpiece and was standing next to him.

_"Clint, I can't say what you want me to say. You know the mission."_

"I know, but..."

_"No buts, Clint. Captives are second priority. I'm sorry."_

"Phil." Clint snapped. "Stop toeing the line for a second and think about what you're telling me to do."

_"Sometimes the job calls for making hard choices."_

"We can't just sentence them to death." Natasha put in quietly.

_"You'd be going against direct orders. Clint, you already have a strike against you. And Romanoff, the Council is just **waiting** for a reason to turn you from asset to threat."_

"We have to do this, Phil." Clint stated resolutely.

_"If you do and something goes wrong, I don't know if I can protect you Clint, either of you."_

"I know and I won't ask you to, Phil."

 _"You've never had to ask me to."_  The affection in Phil's tone was obvious to both assassins. It made Clint feel worse for the position they were putting him in.

"I know." Clint responded quietly. Natasha quietly pulled her ear piece from her ear and showed it to Clint. He watched her slide it into her pocket. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position  _again_." He said as he watched her move away to give him a measure of privacy.

_"You just do what you have to do. Do you you two have a plan?"_

"Not yet."

_"Will you tell me when you do?"_

"Sorry." Clint denied. "But this way if Fury calls, you can honestly say you don't know what we're up to."

_"You don't have to protect me."_

"Maybe it's my turn to be the one looking out for  _you_." Clint smiled sadly. "Phil..."

_"Everything will be okay, Clint. You two are the best SHIELD has and you'll figure something out."_

"I'm sorry. Looks like I'm falling into old habits."

_"Don't ever apologize for being the best version of yourself. I'm **proud**  of you, Clint."_

Clint felt his eyes start stinging and turned towards the window so his back was to Natasha.

_"You just look out for yourself and for your partner. And be careful."_

"Always." He clicked off his ear piece, feeling like he was eighteen again and realizing that he had found someone he could trust for the first time in too long.

"Everything okay?" Natasha asked quietly.

Clint kept his back to her until he had his emotions back under control.

"He said to do what we had to do." He stated, finally turning back around.

"Then we need a hell of a plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 3
> 
> The next chapter is fairly intense and emotional for our two assassins, so be warned.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview. Please treat it as a warning for what is coming in the next chapter and prepare yourselves.
> 
> Clint felt his breath leave his body, his eyes prick, and his throat tighten painfully.
> 
> "T-thank you, Haw-Hawkeye." Malik's eyes tightened in pain and he gasped.
> 
> "Malik." Clint gripped his hand tighter, ignoring the bullets ripping into the earth around him. He watched the boy gasp and cough and then grow terrifyingly still. Clint gasped a horrified breath, staring at the blank gaze.


	4. What About Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to Rain in the Dark as always for acting as my Russian translator!
> 
> Warning! This chapter has some very intense and tragic content including harming of children.

_"I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together."_

**_Lisa Kleypas_ **

* * *

Natasha reached to rub her eyes, wishing they would focus. She was exhausted though. She and Clint hadn't slept. They'd gotten back from their horrifying surveillance run a few hours before dawn. They'd spent the rest of the night and most of the day trying to figure out a plan that they both didn't think would end up getting them and all the kids killed. It was almost four in the afternoon now and they'd finally agreed upon a course of action.

She glanced at Clint.

He was staring at the drawing of the compound they'd created, but he wasn't seeing it. His storm colored gaze was distant and troubled. Exhaustion lined his features and she had to resist the urge to rub away a bit of the black paint he'd missed on his temple when he'd washed up.

"Barton." She called out, watching him blink and his gaze slowly focus. He looked up at her with question in his eyes. "We need to get some sleep or we'll risk exhaustion making us sloppy."

He nodded, standing and moving over to his pack. He dropped down onto the dirt floor and stretched out, his head pillowed on the pack.

"You won't be rested sleeping on the floor." Natasha pointed out, moving over to the bed. "We can share the bed."

"It's barely big enough for one person to lay on it and breathe too deeply." Clint pointed out.

"We'll be fine if we sleep back to back." She insisted. "We can't afford to make any mistakes tonight, Barton. Just get in the bed."

Clint sighed and pushed himself up off the floor. He dusted himself off and moved to the bed. He stretched out next to the red haired assassin, curling his arm under his head, and putting his back to her. She stretched out as well, mirroring his position so their bodies were flush to each other from back to hip.

Clint clenched his jaw, breathing out deeply and forcing himself to ignore the heat of her body at his back. He was suddenly thrilled that he was so exhausted because it wasn't long until he drifted to sleep, his last thoughts on trying  _not_  to think about the beautiful woman sleeping next to him.

Natasha listened to Clint's breathing even out and felt his body relax behind her. She closed her eyes, calming her own breathing and focusing on anything other than the man sleeping behind her.

* * *

Natasha woke slowly, unusual for her. She usually woke suddenly and snapped into awareness almost instantly. But her mind was moving sluggishly. It probably had something to do with the warmth that surrounded her, the security of the strong arm around her.

Her eyes flashed open.

She glanced down, careful to keep her body relaxed and not to change her breathing. A tanned, lithely muscled arm was wrapped around her upper body, its hand curled loosely around her wrist. She felt soft breaths ghosting across the back of her neck through her hair.

Her mind raced. She didn't know what to do. If she moved, he would wake up and then they'd both have to deal with the awkwardness of the situation. He wouldn't sleep much longer, she was sure, he had a scarily accurate internal clock that was _almost_  as good as hers. So she bit her lip and waited.

She felt him stir a few minutes later and she quickly closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

* * *

Clint stirred into awareness, instinctively tightening his arm around the warm mass against his chest. He tensed, eyes snapping open. His vision was filled with red.

He drew his head back, recognizing Natasha's fiery hair. His gaze traveled down the curve of her neck, over her shoulder, and to his arm that was wrapped around her. He closed his eyes and cursed in his head. She would kill him. She would literally take his life if she woke up and he was still laying here. Slowly, he pulled his arm back and rolled carefully away. He sat up, putting his back to her. She still slept on unaware.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed. Her hair was fanned out across the thin, barely soft enough to be considered cushion at all, mattress. He inhaled deeply, remembering suddenly the smell of that hair. Vanilla mixed with sweat and gunpowder. It was so  _Natasha_ and he resisted the urge to inhale the scent again.

He snapped his eyes open, not realizing he'd closed them.

_Not a good road, Clint._

He stood abruptly and moved away from the bed. Where were cold showers when you needed them. He needed to move, to run, or to climb. He needed to get out of this little house. He was at the door in four strides.

Natasha sat up slowly after the door closed behind him, rubbing her arms slightly. She'd felt the loss of warmth the moment Clint had rolled away from her. She shook herself and told herself to stop being ridiculous. Her body had simply acclimated to the heat of his body and when he'd moved it hadn't been prepared for the loss of physical warmth. That was all it was.

* * *

He returned twenty minutes later, dripping with sweat, but looking relaxed.

"It's almost midnight." Natasha stated as a greeting. "We should get going."

He nodded, reaching for his bow and quiver.

"Sleep alright?" He asked. Something flashed across her emerald eyes, but it was gone before he could identify it.

"Slept fine." She replied.  _Better than I have in a long time._  "You?"

"Fine." He nodded.  _I haven't slept that well since I was six years old._  "Ready?"

She nodded once and they left the hut together. The trek to the compound was made in silence. Both of them were focused on reviewing their parts in the plan. They couldn't afford to make a mistake. More than their lives depended on it.

They crouched together behind a tree; Clint raised his binoculars, watching the guards change shifts. He waited for the relieved guards to return to the compound.

"Okay. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." Natasha assured, pulling her hair out of its tie and running her hands through it so it fell in long curls. She reached for the zipper at the front of her uniform and pulled it down so her cleavage was prominent enough that she knew it would draw attention.

"Alright. Be…" Clint turned back to look at her and had to swallow suddenly and clear his throat before continuing. "Be careful."

Natasha arched a delicate eyebrow.

"I was doing this before you even picked up a bow, Barton."

Clint smirked the kind of smirk he usually reserved for their enemies when he knew something they didn't.

"Whatever you say, Romanoff."

She narrowed her eyes at him and then stood, striding towards the compound.

Clint watched her walk, knew she was putting extra sway in her hips for the benefit of the ruse.

_Those four guards don't stand a chance._

* * *

Scott Jackson raised his gun when he saw movement in the trees and nudged his partner Matt.

"What the hell?" Scott breathed, watching what might have been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen move out of the trees and towards their position.

"Who the hell is that?" Matt asked in the same breathless tone.

The red haired beauty stopped on the other side of the gate and then casually looked straight at them, then at the two guards at the opposite corner of the compound, Jacob and Miles.

"Don't move." Scott ordered as he and Matt approached with guns raised. Jacob and Miles mirrored them and the four of them reached the gate at the same time.

The woman smirked, raising her hands in a show of surrender.

"Calm down, boys, I'm not looking for any trouble." She purred, meeting each of their eyes individually.

"This is private property." Matt pointed out, even though he'd already lowered his gun. The other three men's guns were already loose at their sides.

"Oh is it? I didn't know." She smiled seductively. "Maybe one of you boys could show me the way back."

"I'll escort you back to the edge of the property." Scott volunteered, pushing a key into the gate lock.

"Scott." Matt hissed. Jacob and Miles both raised their guns.

"I can't just let her wander around in the woods by herself. She could get hurt."

Natasha watched the gate swing open and smirked.

"On second thought, I think I think I'm in the right place after all." She purred.

Scott was half a step through the gate when it slammed back against his forehead. Natasha pulled the gate back and took two running steps at Matt. She jumped wrapping her legs around his neck. Then she threw her body backwards, putting her hands on the ground and forcefully pulling Matt up and over her with her legs. Hit hit hard and lay unmoving.

Natasha was already up and moving at Jacob. She knocked away the gun he'd raised, pulled his shooting arm straight and slammed her palm into the back of his elbow, bending the joint inward. She wrapped her hand around his mouth, quelling the scream of pain and put her other hand on the crown of his head. She twisted sharply, moving at Miles even as Jacob fell. His mouth was gaping and his gun had dropped minutely. Natasha kicked it out of his hand and twisted into a reverse spin kick, slamming her heel into his temple. He staggered and she advanced driving her fist into his exposed throat and then kicking his legs out from under him so he lay gasping for air, but unable to draw it in.

She turned back to Scott. He was pushing himself to his knees. She ran at him, sliding down like a baseball player sliding into home and slammed her boot into his crotch. He gasped and she twisted her legs up and around his neck and then twisted her body around. The contraction and movement of her legs broke his neck.

She kicked the body away and rose gracefully to her feet as Clint sprinted towards her from the trees. He immediately wrapped a hand in the collars of two of them and started dragging them towards the compound. Natasha closed the gate, careful to leave the lock open, and did the same. They rested the four bodies against the wall next to the door. Clint slid her gun holsters off his shoulder and held them out to her.

"Nicely done." He complimented as she quickly and efficiently strapped them back into place. She raised her sharp green eyes up to his and smirked.

"Didn't even break a sweat."

Clint laughed quietly.

"We have a little less than two hours. Let's move." Clint whispered, leading the way to the nearest door. He pressed his body against the wall next to it and nodded at Natasha as he snapped his bow out to full form and drew an arrow. She nodded back and pulled the door open. Clint raised his drawn arrow and led the way inside.

"Barton." She hissed, nodding up at the large vent cover a few feet down the dark hallway, positioned high on the wall.

"Go." He instructed, leading the way. He slid his arrow back into the quiver and returned his bow to its hiding place. Then he interlocked his fingers and nodded to her. She put her boot in his hands and he lifted her easily, guiding her second boot to his shoulder.

She had the vent cover off in seconds and slid it into the vent. He gave her an extra push so she was able to climb into the large duct. Clint watched her boots disappear. He glanced around, waiting. A moment later her head appeared out of the duct and she reached an arm down. He took a deep breath and jumped, digging his boot into the wall. She caught his elbow and guided his hand to the edge of the vent. Then she shimmied backwards as he hooked his other arm over the edge and grunted as he levered himself into the vent. She had to admire his upper body strength. But she supposed he was an expert at crawling in and out of vents. He replaced the vent cover and nodded to her. Silently, they moved.

* * *

Malik sniffled, looking around at the other children locked in the large cage with him. They were all huddled somewhere or with someone. There were only eighteen of them now. The bad man had taken away the rest of the kids last night. He felt his throat tighten and bit his lip as a single tear leaked out of his eyes. He didn't want the mad man to take him away too or any of the other kids.

One of the other children whispered something suddenly, staring intently at the single guard playing cards in the room with them.

Malik craned his neck and realized the little girl wasn't looking at the guard; she was looking at the air vent on the wall behind the guard. He watched with wide eyes as the vent silently pushed out and then disappeared back into the vent. His jaw dropped in awe as a blonde man leaned out of the vent, bending at the waist with his hands locked around the edge of the vent. Slowly and silently, his body flipped, his legs sliding out of the vent and his feet angling towards the ground. He released the vent and completed the flip, dropping soundlessly to the ground.

The guard flipped a playing card over and cursed, shaking his head in disappoint meant.

"Don't you know, you shouldn't swear in front of children."

The mysterious man in black hissed at the guard's ear. Before guard could turn around the man had snapped his neck. He moved towards them quickly even as another mysterious figure slid silently out of the vent. Malik's eyes widened. He had never seen hair so red.

The red headed woman moved swiftly to the cage, kneeling in front of the lock and pushing two small metal objects into it. The man stood next to her, looking at them all carefully. He said something suddenly and it took Malik a moment to process the words.

"Does anyone speak English?"

Malik and several other children slowly raised their hands. The man's piercing blue and grey eyes locked on him, though.

"What's your name?"

Malik licked his lips and responded, cursing the tremor in his voice.

"Malik."

"Malik, we're here to help you." The lock suddenly sprang open and then the man was inside the cage. The children retreated to the corner of the area, but Malik held his ground, watching with wide eyes as the man approached him.

"Help us?" Malik repeated in shock.

"Yes. I need you to do me a favor, can you do that?"

Malik nodded slowly.

"I need you to help us get these kids out of here. Can you do that? Help us keep them calm and moving?"

Malik nodded again, more enthusiastically this time. Realizing he was talking to his savior.

"Okay, good, because we need to move quickly."

"Some are small." Malik pointed out, "And will not be able to move quickly."

The man nodded.

"We need the bigger kids to help them."

Malik nodded and then moved to the group of children.

"They are here to help us." Malik told them. "We must go quickly and they will protect us."

The children nodded excitedly.

"Come." Malik motioned them to follow. "Older boys help the smaller children. We must move quickly."

* * *

Clint motioned everyone to a stop at the end of the hallway. He shifted the terrifyingly thin little boy on his hip and looked carefully around the corner. It was clear. The door was in sight. He'd taken the lead as they'd moved through the compound and Natasha had brought up there rear. She'd had to take out three men already and he'd had to deal with two. It had been a trick with a little boy clinging to him in terror.

"Let's go." Clint led the way, he heard Malik whisper to the group to hurry and follow. The little boy couldn't have been more than twelve. But he was strong. He was a protector by nature and the rest of the children seemed to look up to him.

Clint stopped at the door and motioned Malik forward.

"Take him. I need both my hands." He whispered.

Malik nodded and obeyed immediately, pulling the small boy into his arms. Clint slid out of his combat vest and slid it around the little boy's shoulders. Malik helped the child's arms through it. The Kevlar plates would hopefully keep the child safe if anything went wrong.

"Who are you?" Malik asked quickly as Clint pulled his bow from behind his back and snapped it out into full form. He tossed Malik a quick grin.

"Call me Hawkeye."

"Hawkeye." Malik repeated reverently.

Clint gave him an encouraging wink and then nodded to Natasha. She nodded back. She was ready. Clint pushed the door open. And raised his bow, stringing an arrow as he moved. He kept it up and pulled back to his cheek until they reached the gate. Then he pulled the gate open and herded the children out. When Natasha was through, he pulled the gate closed and reached through to snap the lock back into place.

He jogged to catch up with her.

"Слишком просто."  _(That was too easy.)_  She whispered in Russian, not wanting to scare the children but knowing he'd understand.

"Знаю." _(_ _I know.)_  He agreed heavily. "Нужно уходить. Быстро."  _(_ _We need to move fast.)_

She nodded and he moved up to the front of the small group.

He was about to take the small boy back from Malik when he heard it. The alarm back at the compound. Time was up.

"Run!" He barked, urging all the children forward. He moved back to the rear of the group. "Romanoff, take point. I'll try and buy us some time." He announced as he pulled out his bow and strung an arrow. She nodded, sprinting ahead.

Clint loosed an arrow at the first man he saw through the trees. They'd obviously seen the unguarded gate and deduced which direction they'd fled. The man fell back with a cry of pain, but half a dozen more appeared behind him.

Clint pressed the button on his quiver to shift the arrow heads. He pulled it calmly, strung it, pulled back, and fired. Then he dropped to a crouch and curled his hands over his head. The explosion knocked him onto his back. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching a tree fall back, taking out another man as it fell. More men flooded the trees. There were too many.

He pushed himself to his feet, drew another explosive arrow and fired it. Eight more men fell dead with the explosion. Clint cursed, knowing he couldn't stop them all.

He and Natasha had made a grievous tactical error. They'd had no idea how many men Carter had in that compound so they'd hinged their plan on getting in and out before anyone noticed the kids were gone. They'd failed.

He fired one more explosive arrow and ran. He caught up to the group quickly, that was bad. Because that meant the small army of mercenaries chasing them would catch up too. The kids were undernourished, scared, and half of them were barely nine years old. They just weren't strong enough to move quickly enough to escape.

"Они догоняют."  _(_ _They're gaining.)_ He announced over his comms with Natasha, sticking to Russian. The kids were scared enough.

 _"_ _Сколько у нас времени?" (How much time do we have?)_ She asked.

"Пара минут. Может меньше."  _(_ _Minutes. Maybe less.)_

She cursed.

Clint heard a sound behind him, turned and loosed an arrow before the man could take another step. His sharp eyes caught sight of several of the mercenaries moving around to their right in the trees.

"Они окружают нас."  _(_ _They're flanking us.)_

 _"Ров совсем рядом, мы успеем." (The ditch is just ahead, we can make it.)_ Natasha replied sharply.

They'd spotted the ditch on their way to the compound. If they could get the kids into the ditch, they could protect them from gunfire. Hopefully long enough to take out the men chasing them. It had been their backup plan in case this happened. Clint had had a feeling when they'd set that backup plan in place, that they were going to need it.

* * *

They almost made it.

Natasha could see the dip in the ground ahead of her when the sound of automatic gunfire ripped through the air. She ducked instinctively, and drew her side arm. She fired at the first man she saw and spun behind a tree for cover. She reached out and grabbed a little girl's arm, pulling her towards her and to safety, but a bullet ripped through the child's chest before she could pull her behind the tree.

Natasha gasped in horror, her green eyes wide. Then she clenched her jaw, drew her second gun and slid from her cover, firing as she moved. She took refuge behind another tree, scanning the area for her partner. She saw him twenty feet to her left. He was standing, a small boy sheltered behind his legs, firing arrows more rapidly that should have been possible. He slowly backed up, using his legs to nudge the little boy backwards until he could duck behind a tree. She heard him instruct the boy to stay there over the comms. Then he was up and firing again.

It was then that she saw the children. They were running away, straight back from the gunfire. They weren't getting themselves out of the line of fire, just prolonging the length of time it took the bullet to reach them.

Her eyes darkened. She spun out from behind her tree and killed six different men with six different bullets before they even knew she'd moved.

"Malik!"

She ducked behind a tree, turning at Clint's voice to see him sprinting the short distance to the boy's side. He had fallen to his knees. His back turned as he tried to shield the little boy in his arms. There were two red stains spreading across his back. Natasha closed her eyes in grief, feeling a wave of desperate anger sweep through her. She spun from her cover, firing to cover Clint.

* * *

Clint slid to his knees next to Malik, catching the boy as he listed to the side and dragging him behind a tree, the tiny child still clutched in his arms.

"Malik!" Clint called, propping the boy against the tree.

His eyes widened when he pulled the tiny boy out of his arms. The bullets that had hit Malik in the back had passed straight through him and into the child and through him to lodge in the back of Clint's vest that had been draped over his shoulders.

"No!" Clint gasped, staring at the brave child gasping against the tree and then back at the too small little boy in his arms. A small dark skinned hand suddenly rested on Clint's. He raised his horrified eyes to Malik. The boy coughed, blood bubbling at his lips.

"It is okay, Hawkeye." The boy gasped.

"Malik." Clint didn't know what he was going to say. The boy was dying and Clint couldn't stop it. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" Malik's eyes were confused.

"I didn't protect you. I didn't protect any of you." Clint gripped the boy's hand in his own, willing his own strength into the child. Malik's dark eyes were terribly old and serious as he stared back at him.

"Y-you saved me." He stuttered, coughing more blood onto his chin, "You s-saved us all."

Clint felt his breath leave his body, his eyes prick, and his throat tighten painfully.

"T-thank you, Haw-Hawkeye." Malik's eyes tightened in pain and he gasped.

"Malik." Clint gripped his hand tighter, ignoring the bullets ripping into the earth around him. He watched the boy gasp and cough and then grow terrifyingly still. Clint gasped a horrified breath, staring at the blank gaze.

Hands were suddenly on his arm, pulling him back.

"Barton!" Natasha barked, pulling him away from Malik. "We have to go! It's too late!"

He raised horrified blue-grey eyes to hers.

"It's too late." She repeated, her tone broken. He let her pull him up and together they turned and ran, instinctively dodging behind trees to be protected from the gunfire that followed them. Neither of them could bring themselves to look at the small bodies that littered the ground they covered. They just kept running, until the gunfire faded and the bodies were gone and it was just them.

Just them running.

* * *

They didn't stop until exhaustion forced them to. Natasha slowed abruptly, her hands going to her knees. Clint, a step ahead of her, skidded to a sudden halt, leaning heavily against a tree. A moment later, he slid down the tree, his legs unable to hold him up.

Natasha sank to the ground in a similar fashion.

"What did we just do?" She gasped, forcing the moisture in her eyes away.

"We tried to save them, Romanoff. We  _tried_." Clint forced out, closing his eyes and seeing Malik. Seeing him gasping for his last breath and  _thanking_ him. Thanking him even though he was dying. Clint's chest tightened.

Natasha nodded, drawing in a shuttering breath. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes clenched closed. She steeled herself and lowered the hand.

"We need to keep moving." She managed around shaky breathing. When Clint didn't respond, she glanced at him. He was staring at something on his shaking hands. She crawled towards him. His hands were covered in blood. Malik's blood.

Slowly, she reached out and covered his hands with her own.

"Barton." She called gently.

His eyes rose to hers and she swallowed. She expected her eyes were reflecting the emotion his held. Devastation.

"We have to go." She stated carefully.

Clint nodded, closing his eyes and forcing out a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he was locked down. No emotion. Natasha forced her expression to go blank as well. He pushed himself up and she rose with him. He leaned over to pick up his bow where he'd dropped it when he'd collapsed against the tree.

"Let's go." He started away from the tree. "Once we get back to the house, we can contact Phil. Until we're near the booster in your pack the signal won't be strong enough."

She nodded. She knew all of that. But she had a feeling Clint just needed to assert some sort of control over the situation. She understood all too well and followed him back in the direction of the safe house.

* * *

They were exhausted, both emotionally and physically, when they exited the trees into the small clearing that surrounded their little shack. Natasha couldn't believe they'd just been here a few hours ago. It seemed like a lifetime had passed.

Clint tapped his earpiece as soon as they were in the clearing and he knew the booster would be able to pick up the frequency of his comms.

"Phil."

" _Clint? What's wrong?"_  Phil demanded, having heard Clint's tone.

"They're all dead." Clint stated bluntly. He felt emotion well in him again and he stopped walking. Needing to collect himself. Natasha stopped next to him, her eyes concerned.

" _Who's all dead?"_

"The ki-"

They were blown off their feet and slammed into the ground hard as the small shack they would have been standing in if they hadn't stopped walking, exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 4
> 
> I know. I'm a horrible person. But did you really see them succeeding? There's a reason this mission changed everything between our two assassins. I'm sorry if I've upset anyone.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> "I believe trust is earned." She insisted, crossing her arms defensively.
> 
> "It is." He agreed with a slight inclination of his head, "at first. But there comes a point where trust becomes a choice. A point where you have to decide if it's worth it. Where you have to be all in, no matter what."
> 
> "Was it worth it? With Coulson?" She wished her voice wasn't so vulnerable.
> 
> "For every second of my life since, it's been worth it." He stated firmly.


	5. What If You're Making Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to Shazrolane for commenting :)
> 
> Sorry about not posting yesterday - my puppy had surgery and occupied all of my attention yesterday. I'll post two chapters now to make up for it!
> 
> Enjoy!

_The more I know you, the more I want to know you more._

**_Roy Lessin_ **

* * *

Natasha forced her eyes open, pushing her arms beneath her so she could push herself up to a seated position. Her hand went to her aching head and came away bloody. She looked at what used to be their secondary location. All that was left was burning fractions of the walls. She'd only been out for a few seconds judging by the fact that whoever had tried to blow them up hadn't come out and killed them. She pulled her side arm, eyes scanning the tree line. Then she remembered.

 _Barton_.

She looked around frantically, seeing him laid out on his side a few feet away. She scrambled across the short expanse between them and rolled him onto his back.

"Barton!" She snapped.

His eyes twitched open immediately and he came up swinging. She dodged the flying fist and pinned it to the ground.

"Barton!" She repeated, putting her other hand on his jaw and forcing him to meet her eyes. "It's me!"

He blinked and the cobwebs cleared.

"What happened?" He rasped, his hand going to the back of his head as she helped him sit up. She couldn't tell if it was bleeding when he drew his hand back because he already had so much blood on his hands. She pulled him forward not too gently and tilted his head forward, her fingers combing through his sandy blonde hair. She felt the cut at the same moment he hissed in pain.

"They must have gotten around us somehow and tracked us back here." She explained.

"Must have been a timer." He deduced, pushing her hands away and climbing to his feet. She followed. "Whoever set it must have seen us coming, set the charge to explode about the time we'd get inside."

"Think they stuck around to confirm it?" She wondered.

"Any good operative would." He sighed, his hand going to the back of his head again. "We need to assume whoever it is will go back for reinforcements. After the gun fight back there, they're not going to confront us unless they have the manpower to do it."

"What do we do?" She asked.

He shook his head and stared at what used to be their hut. All of their supplies. Gone.

"I don't know."

They stood silently for a moment, staring at the dying flames.

"We should get out of the open." Natasha announced with a sigh, nudging his elbow and pulling him towards the forest.

* * *

Clint leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching Natasha check her weapons. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Something needed to change. He wasn't exactly the picture of emotional stability when things got personal. And kids getting killed on his watch was very personal. He'd been through so much as a child with no one to protect him.

He'd thought he could protect these kids. That he could protect Malik and the too thin little boy that had died wearing his Kevlar vest. He'd failed. And if he was going to make it through this, he needed something to change between them. He needed what he had with Phil.

And if the shaking of her hands and the clenching of her jaw was anything to go by. She needed it too.

"If we're gonna make it through this. We're going to need to trust each other." He announced suddenly, drawing her emerald gaze.

"We've made it out of worse situations alive." She pointed out.

Clint stared intensely at her.

"That's not what I meant. What we just saw, what just happened out there," he clenched his fists, "That kind of thing isn't supposed to happen. And I  _know_  you're as destroyed over it as I am. So if we're going to make it through this," He cocked his head meaningfully, "We need to trust each other."

"We  _do_  trust each other." She replied seriously.

"We trust each other not to kill the other in their sleep or let anyone else do it. That's trust, but it's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that bone deep trust that tells you the other person will never let you down, that they'll always be there and that they don't judge you."

"Is that what you have with Coulson?" She asked.

"Yes." He nodded. "He's the one that taught me what it was."

"I believe trust is earned." She insisted, crossing her arms defensively.

"It is." He agreed with a slight inclination of his head, "at first. But there comes a point where trust becomes a choice. A point where you have to decide if it's worth it. Where you have to be all in, no matter what."

"Was it worth it? With Coulson?" She wished her voice wasn't so vulnerable.

"For every second of my life since, it's been worth it." He stated firmly.

She looked away, refusing to let him see the emotion in her eyes.

"I don't know how to trust like that." She admitted.

"I didn't either, but six years ago I had someone teach me how. I can show you what that kind of trust looks like." He offered. "If you want me to."

She turned her head, meeting his eyes squarely and searching his gaze. For the first time since they'd known each other, Clint let her see it all. The pain he carried at every moment because of Barney. The insecurity that plagued him. The fear that one day he'd miss and no longer be indispensable to SHIELD. The anger he still felt over what he'd done as a contract assassin.

He let her see everything, and to Natasha, that said more than any words ever could.

"Okay." She agreed quietly, and then stronger, "I'm all in."

Clint smiled genuinely.

"That's the first step."

"What's the second step?"

"You'll know it when it comes."

She rolled her eyes at the cryptic response. Clint pushed off the tree and looked around.

"We need to get back to the safe house and regroup. Phil is probably going crazy right now." He announced. She nodded. He set off in the direction of the town Coulson was in. Natasha watched him, taking a moment to consider the gravity of the conversation that had just happened.

If there was anyone she could ever trust with that kind of complete abandon, she thought it might be him.

* * *

"Clint?" Coulson yelled into the comms, leaning over his computer frantically. He'd heard the sound of an explosion for barely a breath before the comms went out. He'd tried, unsuccessfully, to get them back up for the past five minutes.

"Get it together, Phil." He coached himself, sitting down and pulling up SHIELD's access page for their satellites. He quickly logged in and typed in the coordinates of the secondary location. He had to force himself to wait patiently as the satellites repositioned themselves. Finally, a live image appeared on his screen. The small clearing and what remained of the shack his agents had been using. He zoomed in, squinting at two small figures standing a distance away from the burning house.

He'd recognize that fiery red hair anywhere. They were alive. Clint was alive.

He felt weak with relief and waited as the image automatically refreshed.

They were gone, disappeared from the clearing, probably into the trees. He stood and paced away. His mind raced replaying the short conversation he'd had with his agent before the explosion. Something had gone terribly wrong, that much had been clear with the tone of Clint's voice. And judging by the lack of children in footage, he didn't need to think too long before the horrifying truth came to him.

Clint had said  _they_  were all dead. He could only have meant the kids.

He had to call it in. He could lose his job if he didn't. His agents were his responsibility and he'd as much as given Clint the green light to do whatever he needed to do in order to save those kids. Whatever had happened was on him, not Clint. His agent was infamous for following his heart at the moments when it would cost the most if he failed. First it was Romanoff. Coulson had thought his agent was crazy when he'd contacted him and told him his plan to try and flip the assassin. When Clint had actually _done_  it, he'd just waited for the Russian to betray them all. Then Clint had told him, on the rooftop one night that if  _he_ , an eighteen year old assassin and United States Fugitive, had deserved a second chance then so did Romanoff. Until that moment, only Clint had been willing to give her that chance. Coulson had gotten in her corner after that conversation.

Now here Clint was, doing it again. Following his heart. The same heart that had nearly self destructed under the guilt of what he'd done as a hit man. The heart that had taken a bullet for him in Croatia and almost lost his ability to shoot his bow because of it. The heart that had looked at a deadly assassin, aptly named the Black Widow for her ability to lure men to their deaths with her beauty, and seen something worth saving when no one else did. The heart that saw a group of children locked in a cage had refused to allow them to become collateral damage.

So even if he had to call it in. He couldn't.

If he did, Clint and Natasha would not only lose their jobs, they'd be put on the SHIELD's threat list. Their skills were too deadly to be let roam free. He had no doubt that the Council would take pleasure in adding their names to that list. They'd had a sore spot for Clint ever since he'd come to SHIELD and it was only Fury that had managed to convince them Natasha could be an asset. They'd been looking for a reason to get rid of her ever since.

He could head out to try and find them, but in the large forest, never having been to the shack, they could pass fifty feet from each other and never know it. He had to trust them to get back to him safely on their own.

So he paced.

* * *

"Do you see that?" Clint asked, narrowing his eyes at a dark mass he saw through the trees, shadowed by the rising sun.

"What is it?" Natasha wondered.

"Looks like a shack, maybe for hunting." Clint replied, moving closer. "We need to rest. This will give us some cover." He decided.

Natasha just nodded wearily and followed him. They cleared the small shack quickly and then Natasha pulled the door closed while Clint pulled off his quiver and set it on the ground.

"I'll take first watch." He volunteered quietly.

Again, she could only nod, curling up in the corner and watching him sink down against the door. She fell asleep listening to him rubbing at the blood on his hands.

* * *

Clint sighed in relief as Natasha drifted off. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling the ache of a concussion. The reason they'd stumbled upon this shack that he hadn't seen any sign of the last three times he'd made this trek through the woods. They were going in the right direction, he knew, but without his map and compass, it would be hard to get his bearings after getting his bell rung like that.

They were both exhausted, emotionally and physically. They needed to recharge or they'd be useless if they ran into more mercenaries. So they would sleep, if only for a little while and hope that they weren't found in the mean time.

Clint rubbed at his hands, scraping at the dried blood. He wished he could wash it away. Maybe if he could, he could stop imagining Malik's trusting, brave eyes as he took his last breath. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, ears trained on the sounds of the forest around them, rubbing at his hands. He looked up when Natasha flinched awake, sitting up and pressing her back against the corner.

"Romanoff?"

Her green eyes flew to him.

"Past or present?" He asked quietly.

She blinked in confusion, her expression hardening by the moment.

"Past." She revealed simply. She didn't want to talk about her past sins, especially not with someone like Clint Barton. He was a man who fought for something. He would never understand the things she'd done.

"Talking about it helps." He advised softly, his eyes not leaving hers. "It makes it easier."

"And what do you know about it?" She snapped, acknowledging immediately that he didn't deserve her anger. He was just the easiest target. She was confused when he chuckled sadly, his eyes going back to his hands.

"Enough." He replied quietly. "You aren't the only one with blood on their hands, Romanoff."

"Working for SHIELD isn't the same as what I did. I was a contract assassin, Barton. You have no idea what that's like, what that does to you."

"You think the guys at SHIELD are the only ones to ever write me a check?" He challenged softly.

"What do you mean?" She asked in confusion.

"I worked as a contract assassin for a year when I was seventeen." He revealed bluntly.

She blinked in shock, ready to call him out on the lie, but then she paused. Her mind drawing up memories of rumors of a distance assassin that favored a bow and arrow and called himself Hawkeye.

"Hawkeye." She breathed, looking at him as if for the first time, "I thought it was a coincidence."

"You thought that two people in the world could have the same nickname, same skill set, and same deadly accuracy?" His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Maybe I just didn't think you had it in you." She admitted quietly.

"I didn't." He replied. "It was destroying me from the inside out, but I couldn't see another way." His lips quirked, "Then a man in a suit cornered me in an alley in Vienna and gave me a chance at a new beginning."

"Coulson."

He nodded.

"He taught me how to be a good guy again. How to believe in something. And he helped me deal with my anger about what I'd done."

"Anger?" She asked. All she felt was guilt. Guilt she had never acknowledged, never felt the need to acknowledge, until she met Clint.

"At myself." He explained, "For not finding another way."

Natasha stared at him, seeing him in a new light, and somehow he seemed even stronger than he had before his confession.

"I kept track of my contracts in a little book, so that I'd never forget the lives I'd ended. And six months after coming to SHIELD I gave it to Phil and asked him to let me know when I'd made it right. He still has it and maybe one day he'll give it back to me and tell me it's been wiped clean. But I'll probably still feel like I've got something to make up for, maybe I always will."

She regarded him carefully, hearing the sincerity in his words.

"So I get it, Romanoff, maybe better than anyone."

Natasha stared into his eyes, seeing for the first time the true measure of his strength. She realized that he was right; he would understand better than anybody how she felt. How much she yearned to wipe the blood from her own ledger.

It hit her that maybe  _this_  was the second step he'd mentioned. Trusting him with the truth as he'd just trusted her.

"I never wrote down the names." She stated quietly. "But I haven't forgotten any of them, I remember them,  _here_." She pointed at her temple. "My ledger drips with a lifetime's worth of taking lives. I've been doing it since I was fourteen." She revealed.

"Fourteen?" He looked like the knowledge gutted him.

"A little longer than a year." She sighed. "It would take lifetimes to wipe all the blood away."

Clint nodded silently.

"You'll do it one day." He assured softly.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it means enough to you that you'll make it happen." He stated confidently. "For what it's worth, I think you're already off to a really good start."

Natasha smiled at the encouraging words and shifted so she was more comfortable against the wall.

"Thank you, Barton."

"Anytime." He smiled warmly. Her heart fluttered. That was the smile. The warm, endearing smile he usually reserved for Coulson. It wasn't exactly the same, altered somehow so that it was unique, but it was there, and it was for her.

"My turn to take watch." She whispered.

He nodded and rested his head gingerly back against the door. He closed his eyes and she watched his breathing even seconds later.

* * *

_There was blood everywhere._

_It was all over his hands, his clothes. It covered Malik's chest where the boy rested against the tree in front of him. Clint pressed his hands against the exit wounds from the bullets, his fingers slipping over the thin fabric of the boy's shirt._

" _Malik!" He called frantically._

_The boy weakly grasped at his arms, pushing him away._

" _Why, Hawkeye?" He begged._

" _I'm sorry." Clint tried to keep his hands against the wounds, trying to stop the blood, trying to save this brave boy._

" _You brought us out here to die."_

" _No." Clint shook his head in denial._

" _Why?"_

" _NO!"_

* * *

Natasha batted his flailing arms down, straddled his lap and pinned his arms against his sides with her legs. She took his face between her hands, forcing his unfocused eyes to point in her direction.

"Barton! Wake up!" She snapped. "Wake up!" She shook him firmly.

Clint blinked, his eyes clearing. Natasha's breath caught. The pain she saw in the normally closely guarded gaze nearly brought down her own walls.

"You're okay." She whispered.

"Tell me we made the right call." He pleaded, his eyes suddenly growing moist and his voice catching. She didn't have to ask what he'd been dreaming about or what he was talking about now.

"We did." She assured. "Sometimes things just go wrong."

Clint squeezed his eyes closed, leaning his head back again. Natasha pretended not to see the tear that leaked out of the corner of his eyelid and tracked through the dirt on his face. She was unprepared for him to draw his head up and then slam it back again, a pained yell restrained through clenched teeth. She caught his head before he could do it again, and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his back and forcing his head against her shoulder. She released his arms from where they were trapped by her legs and they immediately wrapped around her.

"We'll make it right." She whispered. "I promise we'll make it right."

If a couple tears left watery tracks on her own cheeks, she didn't acknowledge it. They held each other, not sobbing, not even really crying, but grieving. Giving and accepting comfort in a way they'd never dared before.

Natasha hadn't let herself think about it. Hadn't let herself think about the fact that those children had been taken and forced into a life they didn't ask for or want. Hadn't let herself think about the fact that she could relate to that. She thought about it now, as she hugged her partner for the first time, and she grieved. For their lost childhood and for hers. And a small quiet part of her acknowledged that having Clint's arms around her helped.

* * *

Eventually Natasha pulled away and climbed off his lap, giving them both space.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, clearing his throat and not meeting her eyes.

"It's okay. We're trusting each other now, remember? I'm glad I was here." She whispered, retreating to her corner. "Was it Malik?"

He nodded.

"There wasn't anything we could have done." She insisted. "You said it yourself, we tried to save them. In the end that's all we could do."

"I know." He acknowledged, but he shook his head in disbelief, "He  _thanked_  me. The kid is dying, and he thanks me for saving him."

"He was very brave."

"Yes, he was." Clint nodded. "He had the kind of strength a kid only gets from being forced to learn to survive."

Natasha didn't say what she was thinking. She didn't say that she saw that same strength in him and that she wondered what had happened to Clint Barton to teach him that strength.

"We should get moving." He decided, climbing to his feet.

"Back to Coulson?" She asked.

He hesitated.

"We could go back, burn that place to the ground. They'd never expect it." She came to stand in front of him. Clint met her eyes. "We can make it right." She insisted passionately.

He nodded.

"We can circle back, try to avoid whoever they've sent to look for us."

"We can hit them hard while they expect us to be running away." She added. "I like our odds."

Clint smiled at her confidence.

"After you, Romanoff."

* * *

They walked for three hours, circling deeply inland to try and avoid whatever men Carter had sent after them. They sat down to rest next to a large, wide tree. Sitting in silence and chewing on leaves. Then they kept walking until dusk fell and they camped out next to an old tree, taking turns keeping watch through the night. They sat shoulder to shoulder, against their tree, and when Natasha's head dipped onto his shoulder while she slept, Clint didn't move her. And when he curled on his side on the ground when it was his turn to sleep, Natasha wordlessly moved his head to her thigh so he would have a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 5
> 
> Progress! :D Now that you've read the immediate fallout of what happened with the kids, I'll try to explain it a little. As you know Clint and Natasha have been on emotional lock down with each other, never letting anything but what's on the surface show. Their characters needed something HUGE to break down those walls and a situation where they had no one but each other to get through it. Otherwise, they'd never (specifically Natasha) let the other in. Clint knew how much it meant to completely trust someone like that, she didn't. She, specifically needed a reason to need that and to want it.
> 
> I hope that explains why the story went the way it did. Now, on a lighter note...
> 
> I'm loving writing these two slowly realize how they feel about each other. And also how they are helping each other deal with everything that's happened.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> "How did you know about Malik's strength? You spoke like it was from personal experience."
> 
> For several moments it didn't seem like he was going to answer.
> 
> "I know because I was one of those kids that had to learn to survive."


	6. All I Was Meant To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections._

**_Unknown_ **

* * *

They'd stopped to rest. Clint had noticed something bothering his partner for the past hour or so. She'd grown almost  _twitchy_. Which was something he'd never thought he'd associate with the Black Widow. Something was bothering her enough that it was making her agitated.

Clint watched curiously as she checked the magazine on her gun for the second time since the explosion, found it empty for the second time since the explosion, and promptly threw it at a nearby tree.

"Wanna talk about it?" Clint offered carefully from where he was crouched next to the stream they'd found, scooping water into his mouth.

She huffed, looking away with her hand going to cover her mouth briefly.

"Romanoff?"

"No." She snapped.

"Really? Back to the snapping at me thing? You really are a one step forward two steps back kind of gal."

She glared. He smirked. It was weak, but it was all he had. Her glare softened.

They were trusting now. _Right._

"I'm just frustrated." She sighed.

"Understandably." He allowed.

"No, not in the way you think." She came to crouch next to him. He waited. "I'm the Black Widow." She stated firmly, "Nothing is supposed to faze me. I have the reputation I have because nothing ever fazes me. But now…" She shrugged helplessly, raking a hand through her tangled hair.

"It's fazing you." He deduced.

"God, they were just kids." She shook her head in horror. "They shot them down like animals. And we couldn't stop it. I just want to  _not_  feel anything. I want this pain to go away."

Clint was silent for a long moment before he responded.

"Sometimes I wish that too." He admitted, "But then I remember something."

"What?" She asked, watching him closely. He sighed, looking out across the forest, eyes always scanning, always looking for a threat.

"That  _feeling_  is the only thing that separates us from the kind of people that shoot kids. That sometimes emotion is the only way you can tell if you're doing the right thing. And that pain is what reminds us that we're the good guys."

"The good guys." She mused.

"Weird right?" He joked weakly. "There was a time I used to think I would never be a good guy again."

"There was a time I used to think I would never be a good guy  _ever_."

"Looks like we both proved ourselves wrong." He nudged her shoulder with a smile. She couldn't help it, she smiled back.

"Looks like."

"Come on, let's keep going." He stood and offered her a hand up. She took it.

* * *

They walked for hours, circling back towards the compound, thanking whoever was watching over them that they hadn't run into any pursuing mercenaries.

"Is that a house?" Clint asked suddenly.

Natasha shifted to see what he was looking at. Maybe a hundred yards away, barely visible through the trees was a building. Maybe a house. She couldn't tell. She could barely tell there was anything to see at all. She shot her partner a glance wondering if he realized how superior his eye sight was.

He didn't seem to. But Clint never seemed to realize he was superior in anything. It wasn't exactly modesty, more like insecurity.

"Maybe." She finally answered.

"Should do the trick for the night."

"Yeah."

"I think I hear another stream, let's go get some water and then we can go check it out."

Natasha nodded and followed him towards whatever stream he heard that her ears didn't pick up. She wasn't surprised when they eventually came upon a small trail of running water. His hearing was nearly as perfect as his eyesight. As they sat and drank, Natasha stared at her partner thoughtfully.

"How did you know?"

"You're going to have to be more specific. I know a lot of things." He smirked.

"How did you know about Malik's strength? You spoke like it was from personal experience."

For several moments it didn't seem like he was going to answer.

"I know because I was one of those kids that had to learn to survive."

"Wanna talk about it?" She asked quietly.

"I guess we are supposed to be trusting now." He smiled weakly.

"You don't have to tell me." She assured sincerely.

"No, you deserve to know." He sighed deeply. "It's just not a story I like to tell."

He hadn't talked about his past in six years, not since he was on the flight home with Coulson after the clusterfuck in the Andes. He'd never thought he'd meet anyone else that he wanted to tell after that. He glanced at Natasha. Her green eyes were open and sincere. She was trying to know him. He'd asked her to trust him. How could he not do the same?

"My parents died when I was six. A drunk driver ran a red light. My brother and I…" He paused suddenly, "Did I ever tell you I had a brother?"

She shook her head.

"His name is Barney. He's six years older than me. Anyway, he's got his own part in this story, so I'll leave it at that for now."

She wasn't sure she wanted to know what that meant because there was pain in his eyes as he said it.

"We were put in an orphanage. I got these," he turned, pulling up the back of his shirt to show her the scars she already knew where there, "and a few others from the bastard that ran the place. That was why we ran away."

"Both you and Barney?" She asked.

He nodded.

"We joined the circus."

Her eyes widened comically.

"You thought I was kidding all those times, didn't you." He surmised.

"I didn't think anybody really ran off to join the circus." She admitted. Amazed that even when she hadn't realized it, he'd trusted her with information about his past.

"Where do you think I learned to shoot a bow?" He grinned. But there was sadness his eyes, she realized. Sadness mixed with pain. It hurt him to remember this story. She found that it hurt her too, to know that. "I had a mentor, a man who taught me all about knives, arrows, and guns. He taught me how to be deadly with all of them."

"How old were you?"

"We ran away when I was ten. We were with the circus for over five years before everything went wrong."

"What happened?"

"I got famous, at least in the small world that is the traveling circus. The Amazing Hawkeye, World's Greatest Marksman. I got famous and Barney got bitter. Something made him stop loving me like he should have and start hating me. I still don't know exactly why." He sighed. She watched his hand drift absently to rub across the top right side of his chest. She knew a knife scar rested there.

"You said everything went wrong?" She prodded when he was silent for longer than was necessary.

"I caught him and my mentor, Swordsman, stealing. I tried to stop them." He shrugged, "I never thought he'd hurt me." His eyes grew distant, the hand still touching the hidden scar. "He stabbed me in the chest." He breathed. She wanted to end the pain in his eyes, the still raw wound that would probably always haunt him.

"But you survived."

"Yes." He nodded, his eyes refocusing. "Survived to run away again. Joined the Army at sixteen."

"How?"

"False papers. They held up under the initial inspection, but when I got put under the microscope on a tip a year later, it all fell apart. I was arrested and put in military prison."

"Let me guess," She smirked, "You broke out using air vents."

"You  _do_  know me." He laughed lightly. "You're right. That was my first foray into the air ducts I love so much now. I escaped and ran away  _again_ , this time to a different country. And I survived in the only way I could think of at the time."

"As a contract assassin."

He nodded.

"I got in too deep, too fast and then I couldn't run away anymore even if I'd wanted to. So I just did it until a day in Vienna that changed my whole future."

"You were a child who learned to survive." Natasha mused when he finished, feeling a swell of admiration for her partner. Perhaps they weren't so different after all. She too was a child who had learned to survive.

"And that, Natasha Romanoff, is why I knew how Malik got his strength." Clint smiled sadly.

"Thank you for telling me." She smiled back.

"You deserve to know."

"And so do you." She sighed. "I was…" She stopped abruptly and both of them turned to their right, staring into the trees. "Did you hear that?"

"Boots, several of them." Clint deduced, reaching for his bow. "I'll go up."

"Shoot straight, Hawk." She squeezed his forearm meaningfully.

"And you be safe, okay?" He instructed firmly.

She nodded and he moved into the trees.

Natasha stood and waited for them to come.

* * *

Clint moved silently through the branches, keeping one eye on his fiery spider and the other searching for any sign of the men they'd heard. He froze, pulling his bow when he spotted them. It was a group of a dozen men. They'd spotted Natasha and like most men, they only saw a beautiful, seemingly harmless woman. They didn't see the deadly assassin underneath. She would lure them in and then she would treat them with her own version of a lethal bite.

Clint drew back his bow string and waited until she gave him a signal.

* * *

Natasha raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Oh no." She smirked, "Looks like you got me."

"On your knees, hands behind your head." One of the men ordered.

Natasha slowly knelt to the ground, her eyes searching the trees above them. She saw him only because he moved so she could. She nodded almost imperceptibly as she moved her hands behind her head. The man who had barked the order stepped closer, lowering his gun.

A black arrow sprouted from his back an instant later. Natasha moved in almost the same moment. She sprung up from the ground, flipping over the fallen man and slamming her boot into the nearest mercenary's jaw. Another arrow took down the man to her left and she pulled her knife from her hip, swinging it in a deadly arc, killing the man she'd just kicked.

She saw the men at the back turn to fire at Clint.

"Barton!" She warned and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him moving. Her attention was drawn back to the fight when the butt of a rifle slammed into her temple. Her vision wavered ominously and a boot slammed into her stomach sending her stumbling back.

She raised her eyes in time to see her attacker fall with an arrow in his throat. She looked through the thinning mass of men to see Clint moving towards her. He forced his way to her side, using his bow like a staff, until he was next to her.

"Thought you liked to keep your distance." She teased.

"Why practice all that hand to hand if I don't get to use it." He smirked, turning so his back was to hers and slamming the bottom curve of his bow into a man's face before drawing an arrow and firing into the man's chest. It tore straight through him at that range. Natasha lashed out at the man in front of her, stabbing her knife into the side of his neck.

There were six left.

Clint growled when his bow was kicked out of his hand. He crouched, doubling over and then Natasha was rolling over his back to knock the man's teeth in with her boot. Once she was clear of him, Clint dropped to sweep the feet of the man she'd been previously fighting. The man jumped over Clint's swinging leg and without missing a beat, Clint spun again as he rose, bringing his boot into the man's jaw. The man's neck snapped sideways under the force of the blow. He drew the knife Coulson had given him and threw it the distance to the next man. He stalked forward, pulling the knife free from the dead man's throat even as he fell. He ran at the next man jumping in a way Natasha had taught him, to wrap his thighs around the man's neck, then he spun his body around the man's head and threw his weight backwards behind the man's back. He heard the man's neck snap even as he landed on his hands and flipped the body up and over with his legs.

He flipped to his feet, looking to Natasha. She was delivering the killing blow on the last man. Clint looked around as he moved to her side, counting the bodies. He was paranoid like that. It was that paranoia that gave him the second of warning he needed to save Natasha's life. He'd originally counted twelve. There were only eleven bodies.

He heard the gun discharge even as he was spinning to cover her body with his and driving them both to the ground. Hot lead tore into his back, bounced off a rib and tore back out the front of his left side. Natasha took his knife from where he still grasped it in his hand and he rolled away. She rose, throwing the knife with nearly the same deadly accuracy he would have. The final man fell with a gasp of pain.

Natasha spun back to Clint, who was already pushing himself up to his hands and knees, his left hand pressed against his side.

"Are you hit?" She demanded, feeling an unfamiliar shot of panic when she saw the blood seeping through his fingers.

"It's not that bad." He insisted, but his voice was tight with pain. She helped him stand and he noticed for the first time the deep cut on her temple, slashing over the original cut from the explosion. "What happened?" He questioned.

"Guy got friendly with a rifle butt." She shrugged. "I'll be okay."

She pulled his hand away from the hole in his side and then leaned around him to see the matching one on his back.

"Looks like a rib bounced it back out. You got lucky."

"Still hurts like a son of a bitch." He grunted. He was still standing though, and that was something.

"We need to get you to that house so I can clean it and bandage it." She muttered.

"With what? Happy thoughts? We're in a forest in Vietnam, unless the house has a water supply…" Clint trailed off with a shake of his head.

"We'll figure something out." She grabbed his elbow and pulled him back in that direction. She paused next to the final man she'd killed and pulled Clint's knife free. She slid it back into its sheath on his back and he smiled gratefully.

* * *

It was slow going, Clint's progress grew more labored as the minutes wore on and he leaned more heavily on her as they walked. Finally the small house came into sight and beyond it an old house.

"Think it's abandoned?" Clint gasped, staring at the old house through pain filled eyes.

"One way to find out." Natasha leaned him against a tree. "I'll be right back." She eyed him doubtfully, "Don't go anywhere."

"I was thinking of taking a run, but now that you said that…" Clint smirked, watching her roll her eyes and trot off towards the house. He pulled his hand away from where he was compressing the blood flow from at least one of the holes. He was really getting sick of getting shot. You'd think he'd be used to the pain by now. He quickly pressed the hand back, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree Natasha had propped him against.

He lost time. He never closed his eyes, but he might as well have. He stared blankly at the little house without seeing it. He blinked, confused about how much time had passed as he watched her run back towards him.

"Abandoned. There's a pump in the back. It's old but it works. Plus, I found some old fabric in a closet we can use as bandages."

"Well that's good news." Clint smiled tiredly. "Won't help if an infection decides to make an appearance though."

"Don't think like that." She scolded. "Come on."

He let her pull his arm over her shoulder and leaned on her as they made their way slowly to the house.

* * *

Phil stared at the satellite footage of the compound, waiting for any sign of his agents. They hadn't come back. And the only explanation he would accept was that they had decided to complete the mission. So he watched and waited.

It was driving him crazy. He had to do something.

If they were, indeed, preparing to make a move on the compound, they were going to need an extraction. In order to have that in place, he had to make the call. He couldn't put it off any longer. With a deep sigh, he picked up his satellite phone and dialed.

_"Code in."_

"This is Agent Coulson, ID 2-3-5-9-8-Yankee-Tango. Confirm the line is secure."

_"Line secure, go ahead Agent Coulson."_

"Get me Fury."

_"Hold while I connect you."_

Coulson stood and paced across the safe house as he waited. He ran through different explanations in his head, trying to figure out how to get his agent's the extraction they needed without getting them fired. He thought he might have part of a plan when Fury came on the line.

_"Coulson, report."_

"I need a team in Vietnam."

There was a long silence as Fury undoubtedly processed what that request meant.

_"What's going on, Phil?"_

"Barton and Romanoff are going to need a fully equipped extraction."

_"You still haven't told me why. These are my two best operatives and they **rarely**  need a fully equipped extraction. What's the situation?"_

"There was an incident, the humans being trafficked where children."

_"Let me guess. Barton decided to start making up his own rules."_

"He did what any operative is morally required to do."

 _"If he and Romanoff were successful, you wouldn't be calling."_  Fury sighed deeply.  _"Are they injured?"_

"I don't know." Coulson admitted, though knowing his agent, Clint had probably managed to get himself shot, "But given the situation and the number of men I've been tracking in and out of the compound, it's a likely possibility."

_"This is a serious breach of protocol, Coulson. Barton is making a nasty habit of it and the council won't be pleased. Hell, **I'm** not pleased."_

"I understand, Director." Coulson allowed.

 _"However, I'm not about to let the personal whims of the Council lose me my two best operatives."_ Fury sighed again, sounding weighed by his decision,  _"I'll back their play, Phil. But you need to have a word with both of them about why we have mission parameters and protocols. Barton's toeing a fine line."_

"Understood." Coulson tried not to let his relief color his tone. He'd known Fury would go one of two ways. He would throw the book at them and report them to the council, or he'd back them up. He'd hoped by leading off with the announcement about the children and throwing in that Clint had only done was morally required would sway his boss in the latter direction. By some mercy, it had worked.

_"This puts me in a hell of a position, Coulson. As I'm sure it did you. You're damn lucky Barton and Romanoff are worth it."_

"Yes, sir." Coulson agreed.  _They were damn worth it._

_"I'll have a team in Vietnam by tomorrow and they'll be on standby for your call."_

"Thank you, Director."

_"Cut the formalities, Phil. It makes me feel old."_

Coulson grinned at the phone as the line went dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 6
> 
> Thought you'd all be interested in a check in with Phil at this point :) He's not sitting on his hands.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> "Does this mean I get to call you Natasha?" He asked quietly.
> 
> She froze, drawing back slightly and consequently giving him an opening to raise his head and meet her eyes. She had never heard her name spoken with quite that tone before. There was respect mixed with something like reverence. But there was something else, something she couldn't identify. And it was all spoken with that soft, rumbling, intense tone of his.
> 
> Something made her meet his eyes and suddenly she wanted to hear him say her name again.


	7. Shadows Fade Into Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> So sorry AGAIN for not posting yesterday. It was a CRAZY day :)
> 
> Enjoy the next two chapters!

_"It's impossible" said pride. "It's risky" said experience. "It's pointless" said reason. "Give it a try" whispered the heart_

**_Anonymous_ **

* * *

"Watch your step." Natasha warned, keeping on arm wrapped around his back and one hand braced against his chest as she helped him through the doorway. She leaned him against the wall. "Wait here."

She disappeared through a doorway. He heard her rummaging through something and then she was back, a thick coarse blanket under one arm and a stack of scrap fabric probably used to make clothes at one point under the other.

She shook out the blanket and spread it across the ground in the corner and then dropped the stack of fabric on top of it. Then she was at his side again.

"Come on."

She helped him over to the blanket and tried to ignore his tightly clenched jaw and pained eyes as she helped him sit. He never made a sound though except to sigh in relief when his back rested against the wall and the tension released in his body.

"I'll be back. Don't move too much, okay?"

"Not my first bullet wound, Romanoff." He huffed a laugh. She managed a small smile and headed for the door at the back of the main room. He rested his head back against the wall, wincing at when the untreated cut on the back of his head protested the action. He shifted his chin higher so that the cut wasn't pressing against the wall anymore, and waited.

* * *

Natasha grabbed the most intact bowl she could find and headed out to the pump. She kept pumping until the water ran as clearly as she could expect it to, and then she slid the bowl under it and filled it. She kept her eyes peeled for any sign of the people chasing them as she headed back inside.

Clint hadn't moved except to rest his head back.

Natasha moved set the bowl down next to him and returned to the small kitchen, pushing aside everything on the shelves, trying to find anything she could use. She made a noise of excitement when she found more than she could have hoped.

"What'd you find?" Clint asked curiously.

Natasha pulled the prize down from the back of the shelf and dusted off the cobwebs. She held it out to show him as she moved closer.

"Vodka." She smiled.

"Can I drink some of it?" He wasn't kidding.

"One swallow. I need it to clean out the wound."

"I'll take what I can get."

Natasha twisted off the top and held it out to him. He immediately raised it to his lips and took a long drink. He coughed when she pulled it away.

"You're not supposed to chug vodka." She scolded.

He coughed again, and waved for her to get on with it.

"Let's get your shirt off." She signed, pulling him forward by the shoulders.

She reached around him and grabbed the tail of his shirt, slowly peeling it up his back and then over his head. Once she got it in front of him, he took over, pulling it off his arms and tossing it to the side. She picked up the vodka and arched an eyebrow.

"Ready?" She asked.

Clint took a deep breath, stretched his neck from side to side and nodded. He sharply blew out the breath he'd taken, his body tensing as she raised the bottle.

She poured and forced herself not to stop when his left hand shot out to grip her shoulder, his eyes clenched closed, and the tendons on his neck stood out sharply as he held back any sound of pain his body wanted to make.

When she was satisfied, she pulled the bottle back. Clint expelled a shuddering breath and blinked.

"One more time, from the back." She told him gently.

"Just do it." He pulled himself forward by his grip on her shoulder, exposing the entry wound on his back.

"Just breathe." She murmured, wrapping her free arm around his right side and pulling him to rest against her right shoulder. She poured again, holding him steady when his back arched against the pain. She set the bottle aside, and shifted him back against the wall.

"Let's not do that again." He gasped as she folded up two of the rags and pressed them into either side of the wound to stave off the bleeding.

"Don't get shot again and we won't have to." She scolded, but there was no heat in her tone. She settled more comfortably next to him. "Not much we can do to stop the bleeding except for apply pressure."

"Not quite." Clint disagreed, digging into one of his cargo pockets and producing a lighter. He held it up not exactly looking pleased. "Build a fire and cauterize it." He instructed. "Now that you've done what you can to clean it, that's our best bet so I can keep going."

Natasha inclined her head in agreement and took the lighter. She moved his hands onto the bandages and made sure he was holding them in place. Then she moved to the back door, and propped it open so the smoke could escape. She used broken pieces of what used to be a wooden table and got to work. Once the fire was going, a process made very easy with the lighter and a splash of Vodka, she pulled her knife from its sheath on her thigh. She carefully poured some of the little remaining Vodka over it and then flicked the lighter to life. She held the flame to the blade and watched as the alcohol ignited and then burned away. Satisfied, she rested the blade directly in the flames and glanced over her shoulder at Clint.

His head was back and his eyes were closed, but his hands were holding the makeshift bandages firmly in place. She turned back to the fire.

"You can call me Clint, you know." He offered suddenly as she watched the flames lick at the blade, heating it.

"Clint, huh?" She granted him a small, warm smile over her shoulder.

"Well it  _is_  my first name." He grinned, pulling his head forward and watching her across the small expanse between them.

"Really? I thought it was Идиот." She replied with a teasing smirk. His eyes brightening at the banter.

"Only to some." He answered with a chuckle, then his grin grew more serious. "That's what people I trust call me." He added quietly, his blue grey eyes were focused heavily on her. She met his eyes seriously.

"Clint." She repeated a slight grin curving up the corner of her mouth.

She turned back to the blade and watched it start to turn a dull red. She wrapped a rag around her hand and grabbed the handle, moving back to his side.

"Nobody's called me by my first name since I was nine years old." She revealed quietly.

She felt his complete attention suddenly tune to her even as she reached for the fabric bandages and tossed them away. She met his eyes, saw the corners of them tighten as he prepared himself, but he locked his eyes on hers.

"My parents died in a fire when I was just a baby. I was saved by a soldier and put in an orphanage, they're the ones that gave me my name. I was Natalia Romanova back then. And I was always  _different_  than the other children." She went on, intentionally keeping her eyes on his, keeping his attention on her and not on the heated knife she was bringing towards his skin.

She heard his breathing pick up and saw his jaw clench, but he kept staring at her.

"I was nine when somebody finally noticed."

She pressed the knife against the exit wound and reached forward to grip the back of his neck as he flinched bodily. His right hand clenched around the blanket he was sitting on. His left hand wrapped up the fabric of her uniform on her side. The cords of his neck were protruding much as they had when she'd cleaned the wound as he strained against the scream he wanted to, but would never, let out.

She pulled his head forward, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"Breathe!" She snapped, "And listen! Listen to my voice, Clint!"

He forced out a sharp breath, his blue-grey eyes locking on her green once again.

"I was recruited into training as a future asset for what was called The Black Widow Program. It was a branch of Russian Intelligence." She told him, pulling the knife away and sneaking a glance at the wound.

It had worked.

"I spent the next five years learning how to be a spy at a place called The Red Room Academy." She clenched her jaw, the memories surging forward. Clint was watching her closely and she looked away briefly to collect herself. "It wasn't a good place." She added simply, forcing herself to meet his eyes again, for both their sakes. Something in his storm colored gaze comforted her and she managed a smirk. "I was  _very_ good at, even though I was only a child."

She pulled him forward and against her shoulder again so she could see the entry wound.

"They did everything they could to control me." She whispered against his hair as she pressed the knife down again.

He flinched again, his forehead pressing against the curve of her neck and shoulder. She tangled her free hand in the hair on the back of his head, feeling the gash there and knowing she'd have to treat that too.

"No matter what they did to brainwash me, it never stuck, even if I let them think it did to protect myself." She went on as she pulled the knife away, pleased to see the bleeding was completely stopped now.

He sagged in relief and she helped him lean back again. He gazed heavily at her, correctly sensing there was a painful, dark story behind her time in The Black Widow Program. He didn't ask though, just like she hadn't asked for more details about Barney. Maybe they would tell each other one day.

"I was fourteen when they sent me on my first assignment." She held his gaze as she neared the end of her story. "Two years later I was named the Black Widow, the name given to the most successful, most effective operative."

"What changed? Why'd you pull away from them?" He asked roughly, breathing deeply against the throbbing pain that seemed to be everywhere.

She reached over him for fresh fabric. Clint breathed deeply through his nose, watching her tear it into strips. Her skilled hands folded a few of the strips into pads and she laid the rest across her thighs.

"Our program took contracts like they were business deals whether they involved a threat to Russia or not. And eventually I got tired of being controlled." She told him quietly as she gently placed two pads on each of the cauterized holes. "I had broken away several months before you came for me and started taking paying contracts on my own. I anglicized my name and have gone by Natasha Romanoff ever since in an attempt to distance myself from my past and foolishly hoped that would be enough. I didn't know they had found me. And then  _you_  happened and everything changed." She smiled, and carefully tied together several long strips. She then wound them tightly around his body, firmly pressing the pads into place.

She sat back assessing her work before meeting his eyes again.

"So I guess I was a child that had to learn to survive too."

Clint remained silent for a long moment, just watching her.

"Maybe that's all people like us ever are." He finally commented.

"Yeah." She sighed, turning away to take care of the bloody rags on the ground next to her. She froze when a rough, callused hand was suddenly on her cheek, turning her head back.

"I need to look at that cut." Clint whispered. "You could have a concussion."

"After I clean that gash on the back of your head." She promised, her cheek burning from the heat of his hand, for some reason she didn't want to push it away. Something in his eyes shifted and he drew back slowly.

"How about I treat you first, then you can treat my gash." He insisted.

"Fine." She wasn't willing to argue over it. She turned again, picking up the soiled clothes and tossing them towards the back door. They'd have to burn them once all the wounds were treated. They couldn't leave any trace.

She returned to his side and folded one of the remaining strips into a pad then turned the Vodka bottle over on it. The drink was nearly gone, but she knew there would be enough for her to clean his gash before it was empty.

She held out the wet pad to him and he accepted it. She swallowed when he slid his free hand into the hair at the back of her neck and gently pulled her forward. She winced as he carefully cleaned away the blood on her temple and sterilized the cut on her head.

"Wish I had stitches for you." He stated quietly, leaning forward to blow on the cut to try and sooth the sting.

"That's okay." She assured, her breath catching slightly at his close proximity. She raised her eyes to meet his, startled to find him already looking at her. "Done?" She asked, her throat suddenly try.

"All clean." He smiled slightly.

"You're turn." She forced herself to put some distance between them, even though some part of her didn't want to. She refused to acknowledge that her hands were trembling slightly as she folded another piece of fabric and used the last of the Vodka to wet it.

He leaned forward obligingly when she raised the wet pad of fabric. He tilted his head forward and she leaned closer, rising to her knees so she could see the gash. Blood had matted the hair on the back of his head and stained it a rusty red color. Either his pain sensors were dulled from what he'd already been put through or cleaning the gash just didn't compare to getting a bullet wound cleaned because he didn't even flinch as she cleaned it.

She barely stopped herself from jumping when he spoke suddenly.

"Does this mean I get to call you Natasha?" He asked quietly.

She froze, drawing back slightly and consequently giving him an opening to raise his head and meet her eyes. She had never heard her name spoken with quite that tone before. There was respect mixed with something like reverence. But there was something else, something she couldn't identify. And it was all spoken with that soft, rumbling, intense tone of his.

Something made her meet his eyes and suddenly she wanted to hear him say her name again.

So she nodded to answer his question and like he could read her mind, he repeated it.

"Natasha."

He murmured her name like a whispered prayer. Before she realized what she was doing, her lips were pressing against his. The kiss was almost gentle, could have been considered sweet and it ended only a few moments later. She pulled back to find her hands tangled in his hair and one of his buried in the hair at the base of her neck.

She breathed.

He breathed.

Then his eyes darkened with something she'd seen in the eyes of many men in her life. But there was more in her archer's eyes than had ever been in those of the men she'd seduced. Clint Barton felt something for her. Clint Barton wanted more from her than anyone else ever had. More than anyone else had ever dared. More than she ever thought she'd be capable of giving.

The most surprising to her, though, was that she knew her eyes were a reflection of his in that moment. Because she realized suddenly, that she wanted the same thing from him. She had wanted it for some time now, but had been too afraid to admit it, even to herself.

Clint knew his eyes were giving away everything racing through his mind right now, but he didn't care. He could see the same thoughts reflected in her impossibly green eyes and something like hope soared through him.

"We shouldn't." She barely whispered.

"No." He agreed in the same tone, but he didn't move his hand and neither did she.

"It would change everything." She added, searching his eyes. For what, she didn't know.

"Yeah it would."

They breathed.

"Tell me what you want, Natasha."

A whispered prayer on his lips. And she was done. She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his, more firmly this time. He responded with equal vigor, pulling her bodily towards him.

* * *

Natasha shifted, gently running her finger over a circular scar on Clint's right side.

"This one." She decided.

"You should recognize that one." He smirked. "You put it there three years ago when I was  _trying_  to save your life."

She lifted her chin to rest on his chest and smiled.

"Ah."

"Yeah,  _ah_." He chuckled. "My turn."

He ran his hand down her bare shoulder, brushing his thumb across a long thin scar on her shoulder blade.

"This one."

She craned her neck to see it, even though she knew which scar he was talking about.

"Knife in Romania." She explained. "It was early in my career. I wasn't quite so  _good_  at convincing people of my point of view."

"We both know you've gotten better at that." He teased. "Your turn."

Her eyes went first to the knife wound on his upper right chest, but she didn't ask about it. She knew the story now and wound never ask him to repeat it, because the raw pain his eyes when he'd spoken of his brother's betrayal was something she never wanted to see again.

Instead, she traced her index finger over a relatively thick, several inch long scar on his chest just inside his left shoulder. By her judgment it was three maybe four years old. Which meant it happened not long before he was sent to kill her.

"This one."

"Bullet, believe it or not." He answered immediately.

"Really?" She sat up on her elbow, looking at the scar fully. It didn't look like his other bullet scars, and he had  _several_  to compare with.

"Yup. Needed surgery to get the bullet out and repair all the damage it did."

"How bad was it?"

"Lodged in my shoulder blade and tore through all the muscles and tendons between it and the entry point. Almost never fired my bow again."

"How did you recover from that?" She wondered, staring intently at the scar. She vaguely remembered noticing that he favored that shoulder at the oddest times during their initial meeting three years ago in France. It was almost as if he would be completely fine then the littlest tweak would cause him pain.

"SHIELD has the best doctors." He shrugged a little. "And I've been told I'm fairly stubborn."

" _Fairly_?" She challenged with a laugh.

"So maybe a stronger term is necessary," He admitted, "The point is I recovered and handle my bow just as well now as I did before the bullet tore everything up."

"How did it happen?" She asked curiously, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking down at him from her propped position.

"Saw a red dot on Phil's chest." Clint explained quietly, "Didn't even have to think about it."

"You stepped in front of it." She mused softly. "Like you did for me today."

"I'm reckless like that." He murmured, his fingers trailing down the curve of her spine.

They stared at each other for a long moment before she broke the silence.

"Your turn."

"This one." His fingers stopped their trail on her back and rested on a scar an inch to the left of her spine. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as she remembered.

"Bullet." She revealed.

"To the back." His eyes darkened in a way she instantly identified. Protectiveness.

She nodded.

"Someone I thought I could trust." She paused to shift her position, laying back down on her side and resting her head on the crook of his right shoulder. "I couldn't." She added needlessly.

"What a pair we make." He sighed, she watched his hand drift to rest on his new bullet wound. He was in pain, she knew, but he didn't complain. Didn't let it show. Her eyes went back to the cluster of three scars on his right side. One, he'd said, was from her. Another, she knew was from their last mission before being assigned this one. She focused on the third, it was nearly the oldest bullet wound she could identify, there was only that was older, right above his left collar bone, it was white with age. She focused on the third of the cluster again.

"What about that one?" She asked, brushing her thumb across it.

"Second mission with SHIELD. Council decided I needed a trial by fire and if it weren't for Phil I'd never have made it out."

"You get shot a lot, do you realize that?" She shook her head in amused exasperation.

Clint inclined his head in agreement.

"People keep trying to kill me. I think the more fascinating part is that I'm still alive."

"I think the fascinating part is that no one has tried harder." She teased, tilting her head to look at him.

He huffed a laugh.

"Romanoff from left field."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 7
> 
> Awe aren't they sweet...in an assassin, we compare scars as pillow talk kind of way... XD I tried to keep it from being too mushy, but still show how much they already care about each other, even this early in their relationship.
> 
> By the way, never cauterize a wound like that. I'm told it can be done, but only in extreme circumstances when there is no other option. I thought this qualified.
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> He drew one of his last precious arrows and pulled the string back to his cheek. Pain flared in his side and spread across his body, but he didn't lower the bow. He'd fired with worse.
> 
> "Ready?" She whispered, her eyes asking the question she wouldn't ask out loud. Was he okay?
> 
> "Let's kill some bad guys."


	8. There Is Nothing To Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to Shazrolane for commenting :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out._

**_Roy Croft_ **

* * *

She took watch first. It was by default really. Clint drifted off without meaning to while listening to her softly tell the story of her favorite trip to Italy. It may or may not have been her intent when she started the story.

She'd gotten dressed and quietly sat back against the wall, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. And she waited. Waited for the sounds outside to indicate they'd been found. By some mercy those sounds hadn't come, not yet.

So she sat and she watched Clint sleep and she reflected.

Everything had changed. Maybe if she hadn't seen the want for something more in her Hawk's eyes, if she hadn't wanted it herself, it would be different. But she had seen it and she had wanted it. They weren't just Barton and Romanoff anymore. They weren't Hawkeye and Black Widow. They were Clint and Natasha. They'd stepped over whatever invisible line separated them from partners and something more. Hell, they hadn't stepped, they'd jumped.

And she found herself not wanting to go back.

She didn't know if she'd be able to anyway, after what had happened between them. It was more than sex. He was hers now in heart and soul and she was his. Forever. She'd seen the same truth in his eyes as they'd talked together afterwards.

She didn't believe in love. Love was a childish fantasy that people fell into and out of too often.

But she believed that sometimes, if the universe decided you were worthy, you would find that one person. That one person whose imperfections were as numerous as your own. But whose imperfections somehow fit with yours perfectly.

She had never held hope that anyone would ever be able to understand her. She was a killer by trade, a manipulator, and a liar. Who could ever truly know her and not look at her in fear. She didn't believe such a person could exist. No one would ever understand and forgive her blackened soul.

And then Clint Barton had held an arrow pointed at her heart and seen  _something_. He'd seen straight through all her bullshit, her attempts to seduce and manipulate him. He'd seen right down to her soul and inexplicably decided that she was somehow worthy of a second chance.

He knew what she was capable of. He knew she was dangerous and deadly. But he had never looked at her in fear. He never condemned her for the sins of her past. Perhaps because he too was just as dangerous and deadly in his own way. He was also a killer, a manipulator, and a liar. And she now knew that he, too, had sins in his past and black marks on his soul.

He was the only one that had ever looked at her and seen something more than the Black Widow. Somehow he had convinced Coulson to see it too. She'd kept walls between them, afraid that if he saw her for who she truly was, he would realize what a mistake he'd made in saving her.

She knew now that he'd always seen past the walls. And he understood. He accepted. He forgave. And he waited, patiently, for her to realize it. For her to let the walls come down and not only choose to let him in, but choose to see him as clearly as he'd always seen her.

They were both broken and damaged. He had found a way to put himself back together six years ago when he came to SHIELD and found a brother in Coulson. But his edges were jagged and rough. Together but not perfect.

It was there, sitting next to her sleeping partner, that Natasha realized something. That his jagged edges, combined with her own, somehow made her whole for the first time since she was nine years old.

* * *

She'd curled up like a cat next to him, her head pillowed on his thigh. It took everything Clint had in him not to reach and run his hand through her hair. He knew she'd wake if he did and she needed rest.

She'd let him sleep for longer than she should have, dawn was nearly breaking when she'd called his name and gently squeezed his shoulder to rouse him. He'd opened his eyes to find her sitting next to him, uniform back in place. She'd held out his pants with a smirk.

He'd taken that for what it was. Assurance.

Assurance that she didn't regret what they'd done, that she didn't want to go backwards. Something akin to joy had bubbled in him, making him smile up at her before pushing himself up and accepting her offering. She'd helped him dress without comment, both silently acknowledging that while he wasn't actively bleeding anymore, he'd still been shot and had nothing but a swig of Vodka for the pain. Breathing hurt. So bending to pull his pants on would have been agonizing without her help.

Not that he'd ever have admitted it.

Now he sat in her vacated post, picking idly at the crusted blood on his t-shirt. His ears tuned to the outside even as he contemplated the implications of what had just occurred.

He would be lying if he didn't admit to himself that he'd been attracted to her from the beginning. She  _was_  the Black Widow after all. Her beauty was known for its deadliness. He'd acknowledged the pull she had on him from day one and written it off as nothing but physical attraction.

Then, a year after she'd come to SHIELD, Fury had partnered them.

She was as cold as ice at first. The adjustment had been difficult. He was a solo operative and the only constant factor in his little world had been Phil. He'd had to learn how to operate in the field with someone by his side instead of just in his ear. It had been the same adjustment for her, he knew. They'd had no choice but to trust each other. Otherwise they'd have been killed the first mission out.

Eventually, he'd gotten used to it. The awkwardness of their initial partnership had faded into familiarity and things got easier. Then he really started to see her for the amazing creature she was. She could carry out the most fantastic of lies without skipping a beat. She could become the most regal cover in an instant, and then fade back to the tough, no-nonsense partner he was used to just as quickly. Her beauty was her weapon and she used it with deadly effectiveness.

It was the small things, though, that had endeared her to him. The way she would wrinkle her nose at food that she had deemed inedible. The way she hid her concern for him under snappy retorts and heated glares, but was always by his side with Coulson when Clint woke up in the infirmary. The way she would narrow her eyes slightly and insult him in Russian when she thought he was being an idiot.

It was the little things that had snuck up on him some time ago and slapped him in the face. He'd been denying it ever since. He knew it could never be. What he felt wouldn't ever amount to anything because in what world would a beautiful creature like Natasha Romanoff ever feel something for an archer with too many scars, both on his body and his soul.

He didn't know how wrong he'd been until last night. He'd always known she was just as scarred as he was. He'd known of the darkness inside her. But she'd looked at him like he was her last hope for redemption. Like only he could fill the gaping hole her past had left insider her.

He knew, because he'd always been able to see her. Even when she didn't want him to.

Now there was no going back. He was hers in every way and she was his.

* * *

Natasha was burning the blanket and the rags when Clint was suddenly next to her and pushing her weapons into her hands. His head was cocked and he pressed a finger to his lips. She stepped away from the smoldering pile and raised her eyebrows in question.

Then she heard it.

Engines.

He motioned her quickly towards the trees behind the little house and they moved.

"Sounds like dirt bikes." He murmured as they concealed themselves in the foliage and waited.

"That would sure make the trip to the compound quicker." She smirked once again awed by his superior senses.

"We'll see what the numbers look like and go from there." He decided. "There." He nodded towards the trees to the left of their little house.

She didn't see anything at first. But the sound of the dirt bikes was getting louder and suddenly they tore out of the trees and into the clearing. It looked like a team of twelve. Six bikes, two men to a bike.

"We can take them." Natasha announced quietly.

"We'll move around behind them while they're checking out the house." He agreed.

They circled the clearing silently, picking their way through the trees until they were behind the team of mercenaries. Clint had exactly three arrows left and he made a mental note to retrieve these before they set off towards the compound. Natasha didn't have that luxury. She had her knife, all her ammunition spent in the fire fight.

_God was it only two days ago?_

He made another note to make sure she got a gun off one of these guys.

He drew one of his last precious arrows and pulled the string back to his cheek. Pain flared in his side and spread across his body, but he didn't lower the bow. He'd fired with worse.

"Ready?" She whispered, her eyes asking the question she wouldn't ask out loud. Was he okay?

"Let's kill some bad guys."

She smirked at his confidence and together they moved. Clint's first arrow whistled ahead of them ripping through the vertebrae at the base of one man's neck. The next, and last, two arrows flew with the same result, felling two more men before any of them knew they were under attack.

By the time the bodies hit the ground Natasha and Clint were on them.

Clint ripped his knife from the sheath at his back with his left hand and wielded his bow like a staff in his right. The first mercenary he came to was raising his gun and Clint knocked it away with his bow and spun towards the man, stabbing his knife into his throat. He pressed his back to the man's chest, using him and the Kevlar vest he was wearing as a shield when the rest of the group turned and opened fire. A glance at Natasha showed her in a similar stance.

Natasha had watched Clint's last three arrows lower the enemy's numbers from twelve to nine. She sprinted at the nearest man, leaping up onto his shoulders. She trapped his head between her thighs and threw her body around his. His neck snapped as she spun, but she kept her momentum, lowering her torso and spinning all the way around until her back was on the ground and the body was suspended above her by her legs, protecting her from the gunfire that erupted a moment later.

The guns clicked empty and they moved.

Clint shrugged off the body and surged forward. Sending his knife flying into one man's throat and swinging his bow into another's head.

Natasha kicked the body away, sending it falling into one of the other men. She raised her legs, rotating them and her body in a sharp movement that gave her the momentum to twist up and to her feet. She spun, bringing her left leg up high and hooking it around the nearest man's neck. The position served as an anchor for her to launch herself up and over the man's shoulder, bringing her right leg around to snap her foot into the next man's jaw. She let gravity bring her to the ground, landing firmly on her right leg and using her left leg, still hooked around the other man's neck, to slam him onto his back. She kicked her boot into his face before he had a chance to rise and spun into a windmill kick to finish of the man she'd already kicked once. She turned to face the man that was pushing the body of the dead mercenary off him.

As soon as his bow made contact with the man's head, Clint twisted into a one handed cartwheel, scissoring his legs around the man's torso and twisting them both the ground. He kicked the man away, having felt his spine snap under the pressure of his legs combined with the force of hitting the ground. He gasped, his whole body throbbing in pain. Maybe that move hadn't been the best idea, given the twisting and crashing to the ground involved. He heard Natasha shout a warning and rolled, barely avoiding the boot headed towards his torso.

Natasha ran at the man as he rose and the dead body fell to the ground. She planted one foot on the man's thigh, the next on his chest and then brought the toe of her boot cracking into the underside of his jaw. The man's head snapped backwards at an angle too sharp to be natural and she kicked away as he fell and cartwheeled to the ground. She came up in time to see a boot headed to her partner's exposed side.

"On your left!" She shouted, before spinning to hook her elbow behind her final target's head. She forced him to double while brining her knee up into his stomach. Then she allowed him to draw back only to hit him with a closed fist back hand, knee him in the groin, and drop him with a side snap kick to the temple.

Clint rolled only once and then caught the man's boot when he tried to kick him again, pushing it away sharply. He snapped his right leg up and across his body, nailing the man in the back of the thigh. The whole appendage collapsed and Clint brought the same leg farther up and hooked it on the man's neck. He reached to take hold of his arm and then forced him backwards with his leg. The mercenary's shoulder dislocated and Clint rolled forward, slamming his open palm hard and up against the man's nose, shattering it and sending the bone fragments into his brain.

Clint rolled away and to his hands and knees. Natasha was suddenly at his side, helping him stand. He blew out a breath, willing away the pain that seemed to be encompassing him.

"That was fun." She smirked.

Clint couldn't help but chuckle.

"Shall we?" He motioned to the dirt bikes. Natasha smiled, reaching to collect two guns from the ground, formerly the possessions of the dead mercenaries. She looped the straps for the automatic weapons over her head.

"After you." She smirked.

Clint collected his arrows and his knife, wiping the blood off on his pants before sheathing it at his back again. Then he stripped two of them of their Kevlar vests, handing one to Natasha and pulling the other over his torso. He threw his leg over one of the dirt bikes and kick started it to life. Natasha climbed on behind him without a word. Two bikes in the tricky landscape that was the forest was a recipe for getting separated or crashing. He was also better at handling motorcycles than she was. It was information they both knew and so any conversation on the matter hadn't been necessary.

"Ready?" He asked over the rumble of the engine.

"Let's go kill some bad guys." She parroted his words from before, smiling when he did.

"Yes ma'am."

He revved the engine and kicked up dirt as they shot across the clearing. Natasha kept her arms carefully wrapped around his waist, cautious of his injury.

He drove faster than was probably safe, jumping the bike over fallen logs and making hair pin turns to avoid trees. His injury, if it bothered him, didn't seem to impair his driving ability. She remembered seeing him take off during down time on a black Ducati that was kept locked up in a corner of the SHIELD garage. He'd come back hours later, windblown and smiling. Coulson would scold him for not wearing a helmet and Clint would argue that if he crashed at the speeds he drove a helmet wouldn't help. Coulson usually didn't appreciate that reasoning.

* * *

They stopped what Clint said was two miles from the compound. Natasha was skeptical, given the concussion he'd suffered from the explosion, but she'd never known him to get lost  _ever_. So she didn't say anything while they stashed the bike and started walking.

She was glad she'd kept her mouth shut when he crouched behind a tree and nodded towards the compound in a way that said  _"See, told you"_. As if he'd read the doubt in her mind.

He gave her a leg up into a tree she thought he took a ridiculous amount of time choosing and then followed her up with a little less ease than he normally would. Natasha settled against the trunk while Clint crawled easily out onto her branch until he could see the compound through the branches. He remained crouched on the branch, peering out through the trees, for an inordinately long amount of time.

"We're gonna need a hell of an entry plan." He commented as he made his way back.

"What's changed?" She asked as he settled next to her, his legs dangling.

"Doubled the guards at the gate. Our continuous ability to kill them must have them spooked." He sounded inappropriately proud of that fact, considering it had made their job harder.

"So we have three arrows, two guns, a handful of knives and two agents that haven't eaten in two days, have been on the run and in numerous fights, shot and concussed…" Natasha outlined doubtfully.

"Should be fun." Clint smirked arrogantly.

Natasha responded with a smirk of her own.

It was time to make it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 8
> 
> Ready for our deadly duo to kick some serious a**? :D
> 
> Here's your preview :D
> 
> "Looks like you boys are waiting for something." Natasha announced suddenly.
> 
> The men spun and just stared at them for half a second. In that second, both assassins smirked.
> 
> Then it was chaos for the next three minutes and 37 seconds.


	9. For I Am Right Beside You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to Shazrolane for commenting :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best._

**_Marilyn Monroe_ **

* * *

They didn't sleep.

They sat in their tree and they watched, they planned, and they waited. They watched another twelve man team return to the compound. They planned what might have been their most reckless plan in a while since they had no idea how many men were in the compound. And they waited for the light to fade to darkness.

Clint dropped silently from the tree, wincing, stumbling slightly, and pressing his hand against his side when his landing jarred his battered body. Natasha followed a bit more gracefully, landing in a light crouch and rising fluidly.

"This probably won't work." Natasha muttered as she passed one of her two guns to him and he looped the strap over his head, sliding it around to rest against his side.

"It'll work." Clint assured. "Meet you inside the gate."

He moved to shift away, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Стреляй метко, мой сокол." ( _Shoot straight, my hawk.)_ She whispered fiercely.

He blinked in surprise and then smiled that warm smile that melted her.

"Береги себя, мой огненный паук."  _(_ _Be safe, my fiery spider.)_ He whispered back and then with no warning at all, he leaned over and kissed her. It was intense, and passionate, and ended before she was ready for it to. Then he was strolling away, disappearing into the trees.

Natasha took a deep breath to regain her focus and looked at her watch. It would take him a few minutes to get around to the other side of the compound. There were sixteen guards on duty, split into four different points around the compound. Eight were on her side, eight would be on his.

Taking out eight men with one gun wasn't going to be easy.

Taking them all out before anyone from inside figured out what was happening was going to be harder.

Getting through that gate, killing those men, meeting up with Clint, and breaching the compound without getting killed.

That felt impossible.

* * *

Clint knelt behind a tree, wiping sweat off his forehead and twisting his wrist so he could see his watch. Twenty seconds until Natasha would be making her move. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, mentally preparing himself. They were about to attempt an impossible mission, with inadequate weapons, weakened and exhausted bodies, and no way to call for help.

He'd succeeded in worse situations.

He needed to succeed now. Because if he didn't, Natasha would be left to face insurmountable odds on her own. Not that he didn't think she could do it. He'd just like to be there to see it happen. He looked at his watch. Ten more seconds.

He pushed away his exhaustion. He pushed away his pain. He wouldn't let her down. Not now. Not after everything. He pulled around the gun Natasha had given him, switching the fire setting from automatic to semi automatic. The fewer bullets he fired, the less chance of someone inside hearing. He slid the gun back to his side.

Five seconds.

He snapped his bow out to full form and nocked an arrow.

He stood and stepped around the tree, loosing the arrow after taking only a moment to pick a target. His last two arrows were following swiftly, felling three of his eight guards before they'd even found him in the tree line. He collapsed his bow, stowing it away with one hand even as he brought up his gun with the other.

He aimed and popped off one shot, downing the last of the first guard unit. He turned his attention to the four at the other end of the compound, all aiming at him with their semi-automatic rifles. He ran, dropping into a roll as bullets bit into the dirt around him. He brought the gun up to his shoulder and fired two shots, downing two of the guards before he was forced to roll to the side to avoid more shots. He came up on his knees, already firing. One more guard down.

The last one was taking cover behind the guard stand.

Clint sprinted for the gate, firing at the lock as he ran.

He watched the chain drop and barreled into the doors with his shoulder. They burst open and he threw himself to the side as the guard ventured out and fired. A bullet slammed into his Kevlar and threw him onto his back.

 _That was a cracked rib_.

He rolled to his feet, already bringing his gun up. Kevlar was great at stopping bullets. That's why he made it a habit to aim for the head. He fired, even as another round slammed into his vest. Not being mid roll, he had his balance and this time all it did was send him back a step. He was already moving towards the decided upon meeting point before the man even hit the dirt. He picked up his pace when he realized he hadn't heard gunfire from the other end of the compound for several moments.

Natasha didn't need guns to be lethal though.

* * *

Natasha moved when her watch reached the time they'd agreed upon. She didn't possess the same deadly aim as Clint, but to be fair, no one did. So where he could kill with one shot, she tended to use two or three at this range, still effective, just not as awe inspiring. She'd been careful to set her weapon to the semi-automatic setting, knowing they needed to keep the shots fired to a minimum.

Her barrage of gunfire brought down all four of the first unit of guards. She had been running while she fired and was already at the gate by the time the second unit realized what was happening. She fired at the lock, kicking the gate open when the lock and chain fell away. She was inside the yard, sprinting to the cover of the first guard stand when the first of the returning bullets started peppering her trail. She slid down behind the wooden stand and checked her gun's ammunition. She had enough bullets to take all four of them. But she hesitated. She could do it without the bullets just as effectively and it would be much quieter. She tossed the gun away and rose with a grin.

"I'm out of ammunition." She shouted. "I'm coming out unarmed."

"Put your hands up." One of the guards replied.

 _Men._ She smirked.  _All the same._

She stepped out, hands up, and sauntered towards them.

"I give up." She smiled coyly, hoping she didn't look as horrible as she felt after two days on the run and a night of sitting in a tree.

"On your knees, hands behind your head."

She slowly knelt, thinking back to the last time she'd knelt in front of one of these men. Her partner had gotten shot during that scuffle. She tuned her ears, listening to the firefight going on across the compound. She smirked when she could pinpoint which shots were Clint's. Single, precise shots amidst sporadic bursts of fire.

She needed to end this quickly. If their attack was going to be heard, that firefight was going to be the reason. They were running out of time.

One guard came to stand behind her and reached for her wrists.

It was almost too easy.

She curled in on herself, kicking out with one leg and hearing a crunch as her boot hit bone. She dropped to her butt, spinning her legs to rest in front of her. She rolled to her back, stretching her legs up and linking her feet behind the man's head. She rolled forward, using her legs to throw the man over her and into the ground.

She rolled into a backwards somersault, a move taught to her by her favorite archer, and came to her feet. She ran at the nearest man, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his neck before throwing herself into a back handspring and pulling him with her. She landed in a stretched crouch, and spun in the dirt, sweeping the next man's legs from beneath him. When he hit the dirt, she cartwheeled over his body, wrapping her legs around the last man and curling her body up wrap her hands around the back of his head. Then she unwrapped her legs, twisted her body in the air, using her hold on his head as an anchor, and threw herself over his shoulder, twisting his neck sharply as she went. She landed on her feet as he fell and she moved to slam her boot into the head of the man who she'd cartwheeled over as he crawled to his hands and knees.

Then snagged one of their guns and ran for the meeting point.

* * *

Clint leaned back against the wall, his gun at the ready, when he reached the appropriate door. He winced, sliding his hand inside his vest and feeling the area where his fabric bandage was. His fingers came out wet.

_Damn it._

He quickly wiped the blood off on his pants as Natasha rounded the corner at a sprint. She scanned him with her eyes, looking for any serious injuries. Her eyes focused sharply on the two bullets lodged in his vest. Green flashed to meet blue.

"I'm good." He assured. "If anybody heard all that gunfire, we need to haul ass."

She nodded sharply, reaching for the door handle.

Clint led the way into the hallway, shooting her a surprised glance when they found the immediate area deserted. They moved quickly forward. The hallway split to the left and right ahead of them. They moved to opposite sides of the hallway and locked eyes. Clint bobbed his head to count down.

_3-2-1_

They spun to face opposite directions, backs pressed together.

Clint was faced with three men walking away from him. He fired the quick shots and they all dropped with a bullet to the back of the head. Natasha saw only one man, coming out a door at the end of the short hallway. She fired quickly and the bullet tore into his unprotected chest, ripping through his black t-shirt. She reached back and tapped Clint's hip, heading towards the room her target had come out of. She felt, rather than heard, him walking backwards to follow her, covering their backs.

The door burst open suddenly and two men came rushing out with guns up. Natasha fired quickly. She felt Clint spin around next to her and fire as well. She stumbled back a step when a bullet slammed into her vest. The two men collapsed to the ground.

"You good?" Clint demanded as he led the way towards the now open door.

"Fine." She assured, breathing around the pain of what she was sure was a cracked rib. She moved to his shoulder, watching him shoot the man that tried to come out the door next. She followed him into the room, turning so they were aiming opposite directions. Clint took down the guard rising quickly from his chair. Natasha shot the one that was going for his gun at the back of the room.

"Clear?" Clint asked.

"Clear." She responded immediately.

Clint moved towards the half dozen TV screens at the front of the room, using his boot to push the chair the dead man was in back and out of the way.

"I'll be damned. I think our impossible mission just became possible." He smirked, eyes scanning the security feeds from all over the compound.

"They're not moving." Natasha noticed.

She was right. While they could see dozens of men in different parts of the compound, none of them seemed concerned about the current attack their compound was under.

Clint's eyes narrowed and without warning he fired his gun at the back wall. Nobody on the screens showed any reaction.

"Soundproof walls. They'd need to be right outside the door to hear the gunshots." Clint surmised.

"Meaning they didn't hear the firefight outside." Natasha added, smiling slowly. "We just got the upper hand."

"How did these guys not see us coming and raise the alarm?" Clint wondered, looking around at the dead security personnel. They both studied the screens, neither seeing any shots of the yard or the gate. Then suddenly shots of both gates flashed on different screens for only a few seconds before they were gone.

"How the hell did we time that so perfectly that we were through the gate in time not to be seen?" Natasha asked in shock. "I don't even see any shots of the yard."

"I told you after my first surveillance run that it was about keeping people out, not in. They expected their guards to be enough."

"Carter is too confident." Natasha surmised. "That's our advantage."

"It's about damn time something went our way." Clint grumbled, still studying the screens. "There." He pointed. "Does that look like a landline to you?"

Natasha squinted at the screen, barely discerning the shape of a cordless phone on a desk in what looked like a bedroom.

"I think so. You want to use it to call Coulson."

"He's probably frantic and we'll need an extraction."

"I didn't know Coulson got frantic." Natasha smiled slightly. Clint laughed.

"Trust me. I bring it out in him."

"How do we play this?" She asked, already running through scenarios in her mind.

"It'd be easier if…" Clint trailed off as he scanned the room and his eyes fell on something on the back of the door. "I'll be damned." He smiled, moving to the door and ripping off a building map with highlighted exit routes. "Safety first." He held it up so she could see.

"We can actually do this." Natasha stared at the map in disbelief.

"Bet your ass we can. What do ya' say we go kill some bad guys?"

Natasha smirked.

They studied the map closely, Clint learning the layout in under two minutes and spending the next few, while Natasha memorized it, studying the TV screens, counting men and placing them in the rooms in the mental map he'd created in his head.

"Ready?" Natasha asked, coming to stand next to him. "Got a solid count?"

"Think so." Clint nodded.

"What's our route?" She asked, pushing the map in front of him. If she were on her own, she'd rely on the shock factor, burst into a room and take out six guys before anyone else looked up. Clint didn't operate that way. He planned and strategized. He left nothing to chance.

"The phone is our endgame, but I don't know about you, I'm itching for some payback. So we'll start here." He pointed at a room labeled  _Gym_. "There're two dozen guys in there right now. We get them and we take out a chunk of Carter's manpower."

"How do we get in?"

"Well, my fiery spider, I thought we'd take a page out of your book and just stroll through the door." He was deadly serious.

"I can handle that." She smiled.

"After we finish in the Gym we move to the Bunkroom. Now it's just across the hall, so it's very likely that they'll be ready for us. So for them we'll take a more subtle approach." He smirked, "They'll be looking for us at the door and we'll come in through the vents."

"After that? How many men are left?"

"Six. Must be the big dogs because they're all in conference with Carter here." He pointed at the room labeled  _Office_ , which was just outside the bedroom with the landline.

"I like it." Natasha smirked. The plan was a perfect blending of their two strategies.

"I thought you would." He returned the expression.

"I'll relieve these men of their extra ammunition and then we can be on our way."

Clint nodded and turned back to the screens, his eyes going to the suddenly visible feed of the prison the Malik and the children had been held in. As if sensing the sudden turn in his thoughts, Natasha was suddenly at his side, pushing a fresh magazine into his hand.

"We did the best we could with the information we had." She insisted quietly.

"We never stood a chance." Clint shook his head. "The only reason we got as far as we did is because they needed time to amass the small army they sent after us."

"Second guessing won't help us now. We can't change it, Clint. But we can make it right."

He nodded, tearing his eyes from the screen.

"Let's go kill the sons of bitches."

* * *

They didn't come across any of the mercenaries on their way to the gym. The whole compound was running in a state of complacency. They thought sixteen guards and security cameras were enough to keep them safe. They thought Clint and Natasha were running for their lives through the jungle of coastal Vietnam.

That was probably why no one reacted right away when Clint and Natasha strolled into the gym and moved to stand in the center of the room, back to back, guns down at their sides. Only a few of the mercenaries even looked up at them.

"They don't have weapons." Clint murmured over his shoulder.

"Old fashioned way is more fun anyway." Natasha smirked.

"Old fashioned way it is." Clint ejected the magazine from his gun, cleared the chamber and tossed it aside. He heard Natasha do the same. As if that was a cue, the men in the room swarmed.

Natasha wasn't surprised after two years of partnership, that she could sense Clint moving behind her. She  _was_  surprised when she her own attacks ended up complimenting whatever movement he was making. If he advanced on a mercenary, Natasha's next attack involved stepping backwards, her shoulder's brushing Clint's as she used a crescent kick to down the man in front of her.

She leapt at the nearest man, wrapping her hands around his head and swinging her body up and over his shoulder, twisting his head sharply even as she wrapped her legs around another's neck. She twisted her body, dropping her hands to the ground as the man's neck broke. She flipped back to hear feet, eyes searching for her next target. Clint's hand was suddenly on her bicep, jerking her backwards even as he used his grip on her arm as an anchor to twist himself into the air, scissor his legs around a man's neck and drive them both, twisting the ground. The man had been coming up at her left and she hadn't seen him. Clint released her arm as he fell and she heard a slight grunt of pain when his body slammed into the ground.

The middle of a fight wasn't the time to worry about it.

All she could do was cover Clint's rise by jumping at the man nearest him, planting one foot on his thigh, the next on his stomach, and then snapping her boot into the underside of his chin. Then she spun, landing gracefully and latching on to Clint's wrist. She pulled him up, letting him use her arm as an anchor once again as he jumped and slammed one boot into a man's chest and then swung his boot into the man's jaw. He followed the momentum of the kick to the ground, planting his feet and snapping out a sharp and high side kick.

He made to let go of Natasha's arm, but she held on and met his eyes briefly. He nodded and spun, swinging her around. She used the momentum of his pull as leverage to swing her whole body into the air. He boot cracked into one man's jaw, and she twisted, hooking her other heel around the next man's neck and slamming him to the ground as she landed.

Clint released her and knocked away a boot headed towards his head then ducked under a fist coming from a different direction. He bent at the waist, planted his hands on the ground, scissored his legs around one man's torso, and then spun to the ground, breaking the man's back under the torque of the move. On his back now, Clint slammed his elbow into the nearest kneecap, brought his leg up and around the same man's chest. He slammed the man to the ground and drove his fist into the man's neck as he rose. He felt Natasha's back brush against his.

He ducked a fist, wove to the left and hooked his elbow behind a man's head, forcing him to double then he drove his knee up into his sternum. The man coughed and Clint held him in place while taking a moment to snap a high side kick into another mercenary's chin, snapping his head back and taking him out of the fight. Then he drove his knee into his captive's chest again, gripped the side of his chin and twisted.

Natasha drove her assailant to his knees and snapped his neck, then planted her hands on his shoulders to give her a base to twist herself into the air once again and snap a kick into a temple. She planted her feet and spun into a low leg sweep, taking out the legs of two men. She felt the air move as Clint roundhoused over her head to knock back a man moving up from her right.

She chopped her hand into the throat of one of the men she'd brought to the ground and then somersaulted over him to slam her heel into the other man's sternum. She glanced to Clint, saw him exchanging blows with one of the few remaining mercenaries. She also saw a man coming up behind him. She ran straight at her partner, planted her hands on the shoulders of the man he was fighting and vaulted herself up and over his head, Clint, ever attuned to her actions, ducked down. She brought her boots together and straightened as she slid over Clint's back and met the man sneaking up with the soles of her boots.

Clint straightened and consequently propelled her upright as well. She finished the man in front of her and turned to see Clint smash his elbow into his man's neck. They looked around, breathing hard. Bodies littered the immediate area and none of them were moving.

"Okay?" Clint asked breathlessly, searching her for any visible injuries. She had a bruise sprouting on her cheek and her lip was split.

"I'll be fine. You?"

"I'm good." He assured, though he could feel blood from his bullet wound soaking into his pants. Her eyes were on his face though and the bruise blossoming across his temple, the cut on his eyebrow, and the blood flowing from his nose. He wiped the blood from his upper lip and smeared it on his pants.

"Shall we?" She smirked, motioning at the large vent cover on the wall.

"After you."

The collected their discarded weapons, reloaded them, and moved to the vent.

* * *

The next scuffle went easier. There were fourteen men in the bunk room. Clint had been right. About the time they got into position in the vents the men started getting restless and shifting to the door. Their fight in the gym had been fairly quiet, but it had lasted several minutes. That was a long time when you were two people taking down an entire compound. Either a cry of pain had been heard, someone hadn't come back when they were expected, or someone had gotten out of the gym to give them warning.

They'd planned to ambush them at the door. The entire group was standing, weapons drawn, eyes on the door when Natasha crawled silently out of the vent behind them. She just stood staring at their backs as Clint climbed out behind her. The stood, side by side, guns raised.

Clint cocked his head to the side curiously and shot a glance at Natasha. He wondered how long it was going to take these guys to realize that while they huddled around the door, their targets stood at the back of the room between the two rows of bunk beds.

It just didn't seem right to open fire on their backs.

Natasha arched a questioning eyebrow at Clint and he inclined his head in agreement.

"Looks like you boys are waiting for something." Natasha announced suddenly.

The men spun and just stared at them for half a second. In that second, both assassins smirked.

Then it was chaos for the next three minutes and 37 seconds.

Clint dropped three of them with precise head shots before anybody in the group could squeeze a trigger. Natasha downed another two. Then they were both ducking to the side and behind the metal bunks.

Natasha hissed as she slid to the ground, protected for the moment by the bunks. She resisted the urge to tear off her Kevlar vest to release the pressure that had mounted as soon as the bullet had slammed into her abdomen. She heard Clint firing and glanced over at him. He was on the floor, firing at someone's feet from under the bunk, then at their head when they hit the floor.

The shooting stopped for a moment and footsteps approached. Natasha looked at Clint again. He held up three fingers. She nodded. They kept their eyes locked as they both mouthed the numbers. Then they leapt to their knees and fired. The three men in the front of the line went down, and the five remaining split to the different sides of the room, taking cover behind the bunks just as Clint and Natasha had.

Natasha and Clint moved almost as one.

They both stood, tossed their guns on the top bunk, and climbed up after them. Natasha left her gun there and dove forward, hooking her hands on the edge of the next metal frame and threading her body through the opening between the bunks. She landed between the next set and planted her hands on the lower mattress, propelling her body through her arms and over the mattress. Then she slid across the floor under the next bunk. Her boots cracked into the ankle of the man on the right, bending it inward. She kicked out at the second man and watched his feet fly out from under him. Still partially under the bunk, she grabbed the edge, pulled herself back and pulled herself into a roll onto the mattress. She ended up seated on the bunk, her right boot slamming into the chest of the man whose ankle she'd broken. Then she brought her left foot up and across her body to snap into his jaw even as she grabbed the other man's arm and pulled him forward. She rolled across the bed with the momentum of the kick and wrapped her left leg around the front of the other man's throat and pressed her right against his back. Then she twisted the arm she had in her grasp and jerked her left leg back, snapping his neck.

Clint dove from the top of his bunk to the top of the next, somersaulting across it with ease and letting the roll take him off the edge. He reached for the top edge of the next bunk as he fell and threaded his body in the same fashion Natasha had. He landed on his feet and grabbed the support pole for the next bed. He twisted his body up and through the opening between the support poles at the foot of the bed. He scissored his kick, catching one man's face with his heel and another man's with the toe of his other foot. When his feet hit the ground, he was between them. He grabbed one man's gun hand and forced it up to slam the gun into the man's face before ripping it from his hands and tossing it away. He snapped his elbow back into the other man's nose and then put his hands on the first man's shoulders, using him as an anchor to jump into an aerial side kick at the third man who was nearest the open area. His boot slammed into the man's sternum, forcing him backwards. Clint spun his anchor into a head lock and snapped his neck, reaching for the support poles on either side of him. He lifted his body and swung forward, driving both boots into the second man's face and finally driving him into unconsciousness. Clint kept his hold on the support poles and flipped his body backwards, and catching the final man's head between his knees. He locked his feet together and let go of his supports, letting gravity take him to the ground. He tucked his head and curled into a roll, jerking the third man over his body and slamming him onto his back. Then Clint rolled to the side, keeping his knees and ankles locked into place. He heard the bones in the man's neck break and kicked away, looking around.

Natasha was stepping over two bodies towards him. She offered him a hand up and he gratefully accepted it.

"You okay?" He asked, eyeing the fresh bullet burrowed into her vest.

"Good enough to finish this." She stated confidently. "You?"

"Hard part's over." He smirked. The way her eyes narrowed told him she'd noticed he hadn't answered her question. "Let's finish this." He encouraged before she could call him on it.

She nodded hesitantly and followed him towards the door. One of the men twitched, a post-mortem nervous response, but it drew her eyes to the floor. It was then that she saw the blood. Blood where her partner had been lying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 9
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your final preview
> 
> "Do you ever learn to forget them, the names in your ledger?" She asked quietly.
> 
> "No." He shook his head, "But it's not about forgetting, мой огненный паук, it's about learning that you can't change it. All you can do is hope that one day you can make it right."


	10. For All My Life, I Am Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> And just to cover the whole story a huge thanks to Rain in the Dark for acting as my Russian translator :)
> 
> I'm going out of town this weekend, but I'll start posting my next story on Sunday :)
> 
> The song for this story is "What about Now" by Daughtry. Give it a listen :D

_Where thou art-that-is home._

**_Emily Dickenson_ **

* * *

Natasha jerked Clint forcefully against the wall as they exited the bunkroom. Before he could stop her, she undid the Velcro on the side of his vest and jerked his shirt up. Blood coated the skin of his abdomen and had soaked the shirt. The cauterized wound must have torn open. She knew there was fear in her eyes when she raised them to his, but there was anger too.

"You kept this from me." She accused.

"There was nothing you could have done about it." He defended, jerking the shirt back down. She scowled at him even as she slid the Velcro of his vest back into place.

" Дебил." She hissed under her breath.

"That one's new." Clint teased quietly.

She raised her green eyes to meet his blue-grey.

"It's accurate."

"A little harsher than usual." Clint tilted his head thoughtfully. She glared at him and he sighed. She was scared for him. "I can take it." He assured. "We're  _almost_  there Natasha. It's almost over. Just trust me."

"I do." She insisted.

"Then trust me that I can keep going."

She stared at him, right into his eyes, for several moments. Then she nodded.

* * *

They stared at the door.

"Six more men." Clint reminded, knowing his weariness was showing in his voice.

"Yep." Natasha agreed.

He stared at the door for an extra moment.

"I'll get the door, I guess."

With that Clint braced himself and slammed his boot into the wood just above the handle. It snapped open and Natasha led the way inside. Guns were coming up as they moved. Natasha grabbed the nearest one, spinning herself into the owner's body and pulling his arm around her. She forced his finger to squeeze the trigger three times, killing the two men nearest Clint. Then she slammed her elbow back into his chest and twisted the gun out of his hand. She spun, fired point-blank into his chest and then killed the man to her left with another shot. She turned, raised her newly acquired gun and shot the man Clint was approaching twice.

He glared at her.

"You couldn't let me kill just  _one_?" He complained.

"I left you one." Natasha placated, her gun trained on Carter, who had backed up against the wall. "Careful," She warned the man as he shifted his gun back and forth between them, "wouldn't want you to do something stupid."

"Oh he's already done that." Clint snapped, shifting subtly.

"Stay back." Carter demanded.

"Or what?" Clint growled. "We both know you haven't done your own dirty work in so long, you probably don't remember how. You know I usually have an arrow for this situation. It's got more flare than a bullet." He shifted closer. "But right now I'd settle for a paper clip if it meant I got to end you."

"I'll shoot."

"Then you really should have done that already." Natasha smirked. "Because now you won't have the chance."

Clint moved. He twisted the gun from the man's hand in barely a second and had it pointed at him in the next breath.

"You killed those kids." Clint hissed.

"I didn't pull the trigger."

"You think that matters?"

"I'm a businessman." Carter defended.

"You're a low life shit head that sells  _kids_." Clint spat. "In what world is that supposed to be okay?"

"They're just products. I'm no different than a weapons dealer."

"Funny thing is, I kill them too." Clint smirked before glaring darkly. "And they're people, not products. They had names and personalities and deserved the right to grow up."

He thought of Malik, who had all the makings of being a brave and honest leader one day.

"Names like Malik." Clint ground out before firing the rest of the clip into the man's chest.

Natasha came to stand next to him and they stared down at the body.

"That went well." Clint sighed, allowing her to pull his arm over her shoulder and lead him back towards the bedroom and the phone. She leaned him against the wall next to the table and picked up the receiver, dialing quickly.

"This is Agent Romanoff, ID 7-4-8-6-1-9-Alpha-Foxtrot. Confirm the line is secure."

" _Line Secure, Agent Romanoff."_

"Connect me to Agent Coulson."

" _Connecting."_

Natasha eyed Clint worriedly as she waited for the line to connect. He had his head back and his eyes closed, but he was still upright. It took several moments as they routed the call to Phil's satellite phone.

" _This is Coulson."_

"Coulson."

" _Romanoff! Thank god."_  The pure honest relief in his tone warmed her.  _"Sit rep."_  He demanded.

"Target is down, request immediate extraction."

" _Confirmed."_ She heard rustling and what sounded like a gun being loaded.  _"Romanoff…"_ He paused and she read the silence.

"He's right here." She assured. "Hold on."

She nudged Clint with her foot and held the phone out to him. He blinked at it for a moment before slowly reaching to take it from her. She moved to the bathroom as he brought it to his ear.

"Hey Phil." Clint greeted tiredly.

" _Are you alright?"_

"Been better. Been worse."

" _That's not entirely comforting."_

"It's all I got." Clint leaned his head back again, letting his eyes drift closed. "Are you coming with the extraction team?"

" _Of course."_

Clint flinched when Natasha suddenly tore at the Velcro on his vest and lifted his shirt, pressing a clean white towel against the sluggishly bleeding wound on his side. He hadn't heard her coming.

" _How bad is it, Clint?"_

"I got shot again."

" _You're kidding."_

"Afraid not."

" _How bad?"_

"Through and through. Well, kind of." Clint sighed, "It bounced off a rib, which probably saved my life."

" _Blood loss?"_

"Had to cauterize it." Clint admitted. "Held pretty good until just a while ago."

" _Are you doing something about that?"_

"Natasha's all over it." Clint assured, letting his back slide down the wall until his butt hit the ground. Natasha followed him down, never letting up her pressure.

" _Natasha?"_

"Long story."

" _You can tell me when we get back."_

"Okay." Clint agreed, already knowing that Coulson wouldn't be getting the full story. There were parts of these past three days he never wanted to remember and other parts that were his and Natasha's, no one else's.

" _Give the phone back to Romanoff. I'll be there soon, Clint."_

Clint held the phone out to her and she tucked it under her cheek.

"Yeah?"

" _Extraction will be there in under an hour."_

"We have people in the area?"

" _I figured you guys would need a hand eventually. I called in the team and have just been waiting to know when to send them."_

Natasha felt relief rush through her.

"That's really good news."

" _Is he doing that bad?"_

"It's just been a long few days." That was all she would give up.

" _We're on the way. Just stay where you are, we've got a fix on the phone."_

"We're not going anywhere." Natasha assured, hanging up the phone when the line went dead. She shifted to lean against the wall next to Clint, wedging a second towel between his back and the wall and keeping firm pressure on the exit wound.

She leaned her head back and they waited.

* * *

Clint woke up to the smell of antiseptic.

He wrinkled his nose and grimaced. There was an annoying beeping sound nearby and he felt a needle in his arm.

"I know you're awake."

Clint smiled slightly, opening his eyes and squinting at his handler.

"Hey Phil."

"Hey Phil? You're unconscious when we get to you and then sleep for two days and you lead with  _Hey Phil?_ " There was sarcasm thick in his tone but the relieved smile on his face took any bite out of it.

"Two days, huh?"

"Apparently you've had a busy week. Body needed a time out."

"Where's Natasha?" Clint demanded, slowly pushing himself up to a seated position. Coulson helped him shift his pillows so he could lean against them.

"Right here." Natasha suddenly appeared from behind Phil, a white fluffy robe encasing her.

Clint smiled. She smiled back. Phil looked back and forth between them.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Couple cracked ribs, several belated stitches. Got creased in the thigh and didn't notice until the team got there and pointed it out." She shrugged.

"Adrenaline will do that." Clint huffed a laugh.

"And you?" She asked carefully.

"Hungry."

Natasha laughed and Coulson smiled.

"I'll see what I can do." The handler assured, slipping out of the room. Natasha moved to sit on the edge of his bed.

"What have you told them?" Clint asked quietly.

"Nothing yet. I said we'd do the report together."

Clint nodded.

"What do we tell them?" She asked softly.

"Only what's necessary. We broke protocol, we'll own up to that. But we don't mention specifics. We'll outline everything with the basics only. They don't need to know the details."

Natasha nodded.

"Do you think we'll get away with that?" She wondered.

"Just let me talk to Phil. Then we'll be fine." He assured. He glanced around. "Are we back in the states?"

"Yes. You were unconscious for the entire flight."

He frowned slightly. It was an odd feeling to pass out in one country and wake up in another. It wasn't the first time it had happened though, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. He glanced at her, watching her pick at a thread on her robe.

"Natasha…"

Knowing green eyes were suddenly on him.

"Not now, Clint. Not here."

He nodded and watched her eyes track down to the crisp white bandage on his side. There was an echo of something in her eyes, something he'd seen when she'd realized he was bleeding again. Fear.

"I'm sorry I scared you."

Her expression faltered for a moment, before her indifferent mask was back in place.

"You're still an Идиот."

"Not quite as harsh. You must not be pissed anymore."

She grinned slightly, standing up quickly as Phil pushed back into the room a small plastic container in hand.

"Is that Jell-O." Clint frowned. "I hate Jell-O."

"You haven't had solid food in five days, you need to start slow."

"Screw that. Get me a cheeseburger and if I puke, I puke."

"And then listen to you complain?" Coulson shook his head. "It's not Jell-O, it's pudding."

"Oooo, I like pudding."

Coulson hummed sarcastically and tossed the plastic container and spoon on his lap. They watched Clint nearly inhale the chocolate pudding and then proceed scrape all the last remnants out of the plastic container. He licked his spoon clean with flourish.

"Better?" Coulson asked dryly.

"It'd be better if I had another one."

Phil wordlessly produced a second container out of seemingly nowhere.

* * *

"You're supposed to be in bed." Phil scolded as he approached the edge of the roof.

Clint glanced at him over his shoulder, smiling mischievously.

"I snuck out."

"No kidding." Phil laughed, dropping down to sit next to him, as he had many times over the past six years. "I'm not covering for you with the nurses this time."

Clint rolled his eyes, knowing it was a lie.

"I've been in bed all day." Clint defended. "I needed some air."

Phil didn't argue. He knew how Clint operated. Fresh air and open space was a necessity. Ironic considering he enjoyed crawling around in air ducts and still slept in them from time to time when he was in a mood to be absolutely alone and hard to find.

"So are you going to tell me what happened out there? Or do I have to ask?"

"Didn't you  _just_  ask?" Clint deflected.

"Clint."

He sighed.

"It all went to hell in the worst way, Phil."

"Tell me."

"Are you taking my report right now or just asking as my friend?"

"Do you see a pen and paper?" Phil shot back. He watched Clint scrub a hand through his hair roughly, only to wince when he rubbed the tender spot on the back of his head.

"We screwed up." Clint sighed. "We got the kids out alright, even made it to the trees, but they sent a small army of mercs after us." He shook his head. "We didn't stand a chance."

Phil waited, watching various emotions play out across his agent's eyes. Self-loathing was at the top of the list, as usual with his agent. Clint tended to take the burdens of the world on his shoulders, whether they were his to carry or not.

"They just opened fire," He scoffed in disgust, "on  _kids_. They didn't even have a chance to run, and the ones that did, barely made it a few steps." He thought of Malik, "I told him we were there to save him. I ended up just getting him killed." He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Phil's sharp gaze was on him.

"Who?"

Clint felt his chest tighten and it had nothing to do with his cracked ribs.

"His name was Malik. He had it in him to be somebody great. Instead he got shot twice in the back and died against a tree in a country that wasn't his. And the real rub of it is that he  _thanked_  me. Told me I saved him."

"Maybe in his mind you did." Phil offered quietly. "Maybe he knew what was waiting for him under the care of a guy like Carter, maybe you gave him a way out."

"I don't care how you or anybody else spins it, Phil. Those kids were massacred  _because_  we broke them out."

"What was your alternative?" Phil challenged. "Your orders were to bring down the compound. If you and Romanoff had launched your attack and those kids were still inside, do you think they would have let them live?"

Clint frowned.

"They would have been the first casualties. They would have died in a cage. You and Romanoff gave them something they probably didn't think they'd ever have again, Clint,  _hope_. Because of you and her, they at least died free. You have to take that small comfort and let it be. You'll drive yourself crazy otherwise."

Clint stared out into the night silently. His handler always knew what to say. It was a gift he didn't think Phil realized he had.

"When we give the report, there are going to be some holes."

Phil sighed. More had happened out there than Clint was saying. More than what he had deduced by the trail of bodies left around the acreage surrounding the compound. But he trusted his agent and he knew that Clint wouldn't leave holes in a report unless it was necessary.

"Okay." Phil assured, "We'll work it out."

Clint nodded.

"So… _Natasha?_  You two finally made it to a first name basis?"

"Nothing like running for your life to bring people together."

Phil's eyes narrowed, wondering if he was imagining the dual implications the statement seemed to hold.

* * *

Natasha woke with a jolt, pushing her blankets back and climbing quickly out of bed. She moved to her bathroom and quickly splashed water on her face. She supposed dreaming of her past sins was better than dreaming of those children. She'd accept the small mercy for what it was.

Her room felt confining, so she pulled a sweat shirt over her tank top and moved into the hall and headed towards the training room. Clint was still in the infirmary, but was set to be released in the morning. They'd given their report that morning, in Clint's room in the infirmary. Their recounting of the mission had been vague, their details spotty, but somehow Coulson managed to construct a full report from their hedged responses. Nothing else had been said about it.

Natasha blinked, staring at the infirmary door, wondering how she'd ended up here. She would just check to see if Clint was sleeping soundly, then she'd go back to the training room. She eased the door open and moved silently through the quiet hall to Clint's room. A glance through the small window in the door showed his bed empty.

Somehow she wasn't surprised. It wasn't the first time he'd snuck out of the infirmary and she knew exactly where to find him.

* * *

"What's the use of having a bed in the infirmary if you aren't going to use it?" She teased as she moved to sit next to him on the roof, hanging her bare feet over the edge. His shoulder brushed against hers as he turned to look at her.

"It smells like antiseptic in there and everything is very  _white_."

She shrugged. She understood the sentiment. She didn't like the infirmary either. They sat in silence for several moments, both staring out into the night. Natasha finally glanced at him, chewing her lower lip for a moment before speaking quietly.

"You told me once that talking about your dreams helped."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His eyes registering brief surprise at her comment. He cleared his throat and responded.

"Yeah." He looked back out over the night. "I dream about them sometimes, the people that I killed when I worked contracts. I used to hate myself those days." He shook his head sadly. "Every negative emotion I felt was worse and I believed nothing could be better unless I made up for it somehow, if I punished myself for what I'd done. Phil saved me from that. He got me to start telling him about the dreams. Now, whenever I have a dream, I talk to him and usually that makes it easier to handle. I've done that for six years now." He smiled slightly. "So yeah, letting someone you trust share the burden? It helps."

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. If it helped Clint, maybe it would help her. And she knew now that if there was anyone she could trust with her secrets, it was him.

"I dream as well, about the things I've done," she spoke softly. "May I tell you those stories?"

He nodded once and waited.

Then she told him. She told him about a man named Carlos who had never hurt anyone in his life, but that had information that powerful people wanted contained. She told him how she manipulated the kind, awkwardly goofy man into inviting her into his life. Then she told him how she killed him and his entire family before walking out into the front door and strolling down the street like she hadn't a care in the world.

He sat and listened quietly the whole time and at the end just nodded, accepting the story and offering no judgment, but also no absolution. It was enough, because somehow she felt less like she was still a murdering seductress. Instead she felt like she was leaving that part of her life farther behind her and instead she could focus on making up for it instead of being haunted by it.

"Do you ever learn to forget them, the names in your ledger?" She asked quietly.

"No." He shook his head, "But it's not about forgetting, мой огненный паук, it's about learning that you can't change it. All you can do is hope that one day you can make it right."

She watched his profile, the truth of his words resonating deep inside her. With him, she thought that maybe she could do that.

"Thank you, мой сокол."

He smiled that warm smile that melted her and she couldn't help but return it.

She opened her mouth, preparing to say something. To ask about this thing between them. But the words froze in her throat. Her answers were in his eyes. Words suddenly weren't necessary. His storm colored eyes said everything when he let them.

Right now he was letting them.

She smiled, and knew her eyes said the same thing.

She was his fiery spider and he was her hawk. Forever. Life was too short for it to be anything less.

They stayed out on the roof, sitting silently together. When the sun started to rise, they went back inside together. And if anybody watching the pair of assassins noticed that they went back to one room instead of two, they didn't dare to mention it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Vietnam
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Here's the summary of my next story :) It's the sequel to my already completed story "Trust"
> 
> "The Heart Bleeds"
> 
> When Natasha is reported killed in action, Clint walks away. From SHIELD, from the Avengers, from everything. He has only one mission left: Find the man responsible and make him pay. But nothing is as it seems and Clint's one-man quest for vengeance leads him to startling discoveries about revenge and how your past always finds a way to catch up to you. (Sequel to "Trust", BlackHawk, whole team is there)

**Author's Note:**

> End of Chapter 1
> 
> And here we go! This story isn't the origin of their sort-of-friendship or partnership, those are both already established at this point. It is literally the origin of their relationship. So at this point they are both firmly planted in the land of denial about how they feel about each other. Just wanted to lay that out there and be clear about the direction this story was headed.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview of Chapter 2: 
> 
> Clint reached to rub his eyes, stretching his lithe body out to its full length.
> 
> Natasha looked away abruptly when she caught herself staring. She glanced self-consciously at Coulson, who was watching her thoughtfully. She shifted her gaze away, choosing to study a pattern in the wood of their table.
> 
> Clint stood from his cot, ear buds still in place, and stretched again.
> 
> Natasha wished he'd just get stretched already.


End file.
